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bucky-fricking-barnes · 3 months

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The Cards We're Dealt

Title: The Cards We’re Dealt

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 15k

Warnings: Arranged marriage, alcohol, cursing, objectification of women and mild sexism, bad parents, angst, fluff, mentions of drugs

Summary: Bucky and Y/N are the children of the two most prominent mob bosses in New York. When their parents use them as part of a deal, they’re left to figure out how their lives fit together.

A/N: Wow! Another long fic because I have no self-restraint. There’s a bit of Irish in this because I couldn’t resist it when I wrote Steve. Translations are at the end, and anything incorrect can be blamed on Google Translate. As always, thank you for reading, liking, commenting, reblogging, and supporting me in all the ways you do.

There is an unspoken rule amongst the mobs in New York that the more drug manufacturers a man controls, the nicer you treat his daughter. So, when Bucky’s father tells him that he’s once again been pimped out as part of a deal, Bucky knows to ask the question,

“How many does he control?”

If Bucky had his way, of course, he would treat all girls as well as he is able (which is very well). He likes girls, and he likes going out with girls. He just wishes he could choose which girls he got to take out.

“Seventy-five percent,” George Barnes says, and Bucky freezes with his glass against his lips. He has a club soda to his father’s whiskey—he’s in a good mood and was actually hoping to enjoy the day, though now he’s reconsidering it. His plan to lounge by the pool with Becca and soak up as much of the late spring sunshine as possible is quickly dissipating.

“That’s not possible,” Bucky replies. He quickly does the math in his head. His dad owns over half the manufacturers in Brooklyn. “We own—“

“Not anymore.”

The library falls silent as Bucky tries to wrap his head around the news. Just yesterday he’d overheard his father on the phone with one of his men, explaining in great detail what he’d do if they didn’t get him a sample of their newest product by the top of the hour.

“How?” he asks. He sets his glass aside and sits straighter in his chair. “Did something happen? You didn’t tell me about a takeover.”

George takes a sip of his whiskey. “That’s because there wasn’t one.” He sets the crystal tumbler on the small bronze tray nearby. Marta will come clean it up later. “I sold them.”

“You sold them? If you’ve already struck a deal, then why am I taking out his daughter? Isn’t that normally something you have me do to butter their fathers up before you make the deal?”

Bucky watches as his own father stands and goes to watch the landscapers through the library window, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s long since been out of the army, but some habits die hard. Very rarely did the man ever relax.

“You are the deal,” George answers, his voice much too casual for Bucky’s liking.

“What the hell are you talking about?” snaps Bucky.

“Watch your tone, boy,” his father replies. He doesn’t turn around to witness the way Bucky grinds his teeth together in response. “In exchange for the majority of Theo’s territory, you and Y/N will be married within a year and a half, though the exact date is up to the two of you. I believe that Theo mentioned his daughter likes spring, so perhaps a spring wedding. June is popular, from what I’m told, though that’s cutting it a little close to the deadline.”

Bucky’s up out of his seat now. He can feel his pulse thrumming and he can’t quite catch his breath.

“So what? You threw me in to sweeten the pot? Am I just another bargaining chip to you now?”

He’s shouting. He doesn’t care.

George turns and regards him in silence, and, like always, his expression betrays nothing of what he’s thinking or feeling. He doesn’t seem fazed at all by Bucky’s outburst.

“You’re my heir. I make my decisions based on what’s best for our family. Nothing about this decision is impulsive or frivolous, James,” he finally answers, his voice cool and even. There’s nothing familial in his tone—George Barnes is all business.

“You can’t just decide that I’m getting married. I won’t do it. I refuse,” Bucky tells him. He balls his fists at his sides and he sets his jaw, furious. How dare his father try to control his life like this? It’s one thing to occupy the majority of Bucky’s nights and weekends with dates, meetings, dinners, and weapons runs, but it’s another to throw him into a marriage he doesn’t want.

“I can and you will. If you don’t, there will be consequences. To start, you will be immediately cut off from our family. You will have no money, no home, no resources, and no contact or communication with anyone involved in the business, including your mother and your sister.”

Heart pounding, Bucky glares at him. He’s got a migraine coming on. He knows his father isn’t kidding, but he wants more than anything for Steve to pop out and say that this is all just a joke. He’s never even met Theo’s daughter. He’s barely even met Theo. According to the rumors, his only daughter is his most prized treasure. She isn’t someone who frequents any of the bars, clubs, and restaurants that he and the other “mob children” frequent. Maybe “mob children” isn’t exactly the right term, at least not anymore. After all, Bucky’s engaged now. He’s just part of the mob, another pawn to be moved around the chessboard.

“You have the rest of the day off. I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning,” says George. He picks up his glass and downs the last of the liquor. “Theo and his family are coming for breakfast, and then Y/N will be moving in with us. I want you on your best behavior.”

He pauses and Bucky continues to glare at him, not validating his words with a response. George’s eyes grow dark with a thinly veiled threat. Bucky knows that look—if he pushes his father any harder, he’ll regret it.

“Do you understand, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky grinds out.

Turning on his heel, Bucky stalks out of the library and slams the door behind him. He immediately heads down the hall, then down the stairs and across the ground floor of the Barnes Estate to the garage. His keys are still in his pocket; he’d only just gotten back from a night out with Steve when his father had summoned him.

It doesn’t matter that he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Bucky climbs onto his bike and revs the engine, speeding off down the long driveway that winds around the house. The guards barely get the gate open in time and then he’s flying down the road, heading straight to Steve’s bar in the city. He knows his friend will be there, most likely nursing his hangover and going over the books in his back office. He won’t be hard to convince to go out again, though Bucky knows he won’t approve of the plan to drink as much as he possibly can in the next twelve hours. It doesn’t matter, though—it’s Bucky’s last night as a free man, and he’s determined to make the most of it.

You sit between your parents, staring at the empty seat across from you. They’d told you this morning that you were going to the Barnes Estate for breakfast, and while you’d expected the grandeur of the dining room and the meal, you didn’t expect the eldest Barnes child to be completely absent. You’ve never met him, but your mother has insisted that you speak to James—George Barnes’ only son and heir—as much as possible during the meal. Supposedly, he’s the same age as you.

Rebecca Barnes is a ray of sunshine and her cheery disposition is a stark contrast to the dark clouds that now hang over your fathers’ heads. Maybe it’s a deal gone wrong or maybe it’s something else, but you don’t like it. It leaves an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. Silently, you sneak a hand under the table to find your mother’s. You squeeze and your mom squeezes back, glancing over to give a reassuring smile.

“Y/N,” Mrs. Barnes starts, and you jump a little in your seat. You haven’t been verbally addressed since you’d been seated a half hour ago. The food has yet to be served. “Your parents tell us that you’re very interested in horticulture. Did you know we have a rose garden out back?”

You force a polite smile. “I don’t know about very interested. I have a few house plants that I’ve managed to keep alive, though I would love to see your garden sometime. I’m sure it’s beautiful,” you add.

“Maybe Bucky can take you,” Rebecca says, earning herself a sharp look from her mother. She simply shrugs.

Oh, to be as unbothered as Rebecca Barnes!

“Where is James?” your father asks. His voice is a low, threatening growl and you sink down in your chair, staring at the cloth napkin still folded atop your plates.

“He knows to be here,” Mr. Barnes growls back. “You’ll have to excuse his tardiness, he’s not normally like this.”

Mrs. Barnes gives Rebecca an even harsher look when she opens her mouth to speak, and this time the girl actually looks ashamed. She takes a sip of her orange juice to hide the guilty look on her face. She’s the first person to have actually touched something on the table, and it’s like whatever spell the room has been under is broken.

All at once, the dining room springs to life. A short, slightly heavy-set woman in a gray dress and white apron enters through one door. She’s holding a delicate silver coffeepot and the smell of coffee instantly fills the room. Two younger women in identical uniforms follow behind her, each of them pushing golden carts laden with food. Through the door across the room, a tall man with short, dark brown hair stumbles in. He’s wearing all black, from his rumpled button-up and jeans to his boots and sunglasses. His hair is sticking up in every direction and just like the coffee, you can smell the stench of alcohol coming from him even from your seat.

You grimace at the smell and pull your napkin into your lap as one of the women comes to place food in front of you. It’s a formal dining service and the strange new man who’s entered feels entirely out of place. From his attire to the way he shuffles across the antique rug, everything about him screams that he’d rather be anywhere else. If you acted like that, your father would be pulling you back out into the hallway to reprimand you, and you look anxiously at Mr. Barnes, who’s seated at the head of the table.

“James,” he greets, his voice unnervingly even. A chill runs down your spine. “It’s nice of you to join us. I trust that you slept well last night?”

James collapses into the only empty chair at the table, the one across from you, and pointedly ignores his father. You risk a glance up at him as he reaches for the cup of coffee that’s already been poured.

True to form, Rebecca leans over and claps a hand on her brother’s shoulder blade. “Good morning! Aren’t you excited to have breakfast with our guests?” she shouts, and her smirk makes it much too clear that she’s fully enjoying the way her brother’s scowl deepens. Rebecca also ignores her parents, including her mother, who leans forward to look past James and give her a look of warning.

James shrugs his sister off of him and starts buttering the toast on his plate. You watch for a moment, then start picking at your own food as your mother also begins to eat. Everyone’s acting so strangely that you’re already on edge, and you’ve only managed to get down a few grapes and two bites of dry toast by the time your father speaks up again.

“So when are we signing these papers?” he asks, sipping his coffee.

“As soon as the marriage license is signed,” answers Mr. Barnes.

You frown. Marriage license? Who’s getting married?

“And the terms are the same as when we last spoke?”

Mr. Barnes sips his own drink, something that looks suspiciously like whiskey, and sets down the glass. “Yes. I have that contract in my office. We’ll review and sign after we’re done here. Are all of your daughter’s things ready to be moved?”

Your stomach drops and you turn to stare at your father with wide eyes. He nods, not even paying attention to you as he continues his conversation with the other man. Your mother pointedly ignores you, choosing instead to stare at her plate as she eats. When you look around the room, it seems like almost everyone else is doing the same. Rebecca is the only person who actually meets your panicked gaze. She gives you a pitying look as your anxiety rises.

It feels like your mouth is filled with sandpaper, and you grab your glass of juice. You have to drink half of it before the feeling even mildly abates. As soon as you set it down, one of the women in gray appears to refill it.

“What’s going on? Why are you moving my stuff?” you finally choke out. You twist the napkin in your lap with both hands, wringing it as you look from one person’s face to the next.

Mr. Barnes stops mid-sentence and the whole room freezes. Even James, who’s pouring something into his coffee cup from a small silver flask, stops what he’s doing.

“Y/N, sweetheart,” your mother begins, taking your hand under the table.

You want to pull away. You don’t.

“After breakfast, your father and I are going home, but you’ll be staying here with the Barneses.”

“What?” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears. “No, I don’t— I don’t want to stay here. You never said anything about me—“

“We’re getting married,” James interrupts. He’s chewing and you look over at him, gaping at the casual way he’s sprawled out in his chair. You can feel his gaze on you even from behind his sunglasses and it makes you feel dirty.

“Excuse me?”

He chuckles and sits up, then leans forward in the chair. He drops the greasy strip of bacon he’d been eating onto his plate. “We’re getting married. They’re using us like bartering chips, sweetheart. You and me in exchange for all the drugs and all the territory in New York.” James gestures grandly with one hand, a too-wide grin on his face. There must be at least ten rings on each of his hands and you swallow thickly at the threatening display of black and silver metal.

You’re trembling now and you pull your hand away from your mom’s. She reaches for you again but you shake your head, shying away from her touch. Frantically, you look around the room to see if this is some kind of joke or a drunken rambling, but no one is laughing. Even Mrs. Barnes has the decency to look sympathetic on your behalf.

“No, no. You wouldn’t—“ You look back at your parents, imploring them to say that it isn’t true. You swallow thickly, trying to stave off tears, and your voice wavers as you prompt, “Mom? Dad?”

Their silence speaks volumes and a whimper escapes you as you wring your hands in your lap. The napkin slides onto the floor. It suddenly feels like you can’t breathe and when your mom reaches out for a second time and starts to tell you to calm down, you jerk away and stand. The chair falls backwards behind you, but you ignore it as you rush out of the dining room and into the hallway you’d entered from. Everything is unfamiliar. Frantically, you pick a door and yank on the handle. It doesn’t give way and you continue the process until one of them finally opens and you can rush inside. You lock it behind you and press your back against the door. The curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows are closed, shrouding the room in darkness. You can’t make out much of the furniture through the tears in your eyes.

Out in the hallway, you can hear your mother calling for you and your father arguing with Mr. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes is yelling at somebody too, but it’s hard enough to hear the others over your own gasps and sobs. You’re properly crying now and you sink to the floor, curling up on the carpet as you heave. It’s a good thing you weren’t able to stomach much breakfast.

A knock on the door makes you yelp and then cry harder, and you crawl into the darkness of the room to try and find a hiding spot. You’re lucky enough to find an old, heavy desk right away. It’s the perfect size for you to crawl under for shelter, and there’s no chair for you to move out of the way. The drawers on both sides create a cubby for you, so you crawl into it and curl up into a ball with your back towards the door, just in case someone manages to get in. If you’re quiet enough, it’s possible they’ll walk right past you.

The crowd in the hallway has definitely heard you by now. The doorknob is rattling as whoever’s on the other side tries to get in, but after a few minutes, they stop and the hallway goes quiet. You hold your breath after every couple of sobs, listening for any sign that they’ve found a key or that they’re picking the lock. Nothing happens, however, and after a while, you give up on listening.

You sit in the darkness and cry until you’re thoroughly exhausted. Once you’ve run out of tears, you sit and zone out with your head resting against the side of the desk drawers for a while longer, numb from the news. Your body feels light and a buzzing, tingling feeling makes moving your limbs seem impossible. You could’ve never imagined that your parents would be so capable of treating you so poorly. You’ve always felt so loved by them, and to hear that they’ve practically thrown you away at the first chance of a profit makes you want to puke. Upon that realization, you actually do throw up, and the stink of your vomit on the carpet of whatever room you’re in makes you want to cry all over again.

The door opens just as the stench is becoming too much to bear. Light floods in from the hallway and you squint, curling up in fear. After a moment, the shorter woman in the gray uniform that you’d seen at breakfast appears a few feet away from the desk, right in the path of light. You look up at her.

“Oh dear,” she sighs, and you instantly feel ashamed at the disappointment in her voice.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. Your bottom lip is trembling again as fresh tears somehow appear in your eyes. Sniffling, you wipe your nose with the back of your wrists. “I can clean it if you—“

“You’ll do no such thing,” the woman says. Her voice is gentle and kind, so much so that you don’t feel the need to argue with her. She waves her hand dismissively and approaches you, then holds out both hands. She’s careful not to step in the mess you’ve made. “Now come on, up you go.”

You let her help you to your feet and then you straighten out your clothes, sniffling and wiping at your nose again in a desperate attempt to look more put together than you feel. Still a bit unsteady, you whimper for a second time, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, dear.” She gives you a warm smile. “My name’s Marta. I’m the head housekeeper here. It’s very nice to meet you.”

You don’t feel the same way about meeting her, given the circumstances, but you hold that comment to yourself and simply nod in agreement. Marta leads you back out into the too-bright hallway. It’s empty except for a bald man mopping the floor on the far end.

The high ceilings and glossy marble floors make it look like you’re in a castle. Even the silence feels regal. Everything seems so cold compared to your home, and you feel too small in the massive space.

“What time is it?” you quietly ask, looking back at Marta.

“It’s almost noon, Miss.”

Your stomach sinks and you press your lips together, inhaling deeply as you look around again. Three hours have passed. “My parents…”

“They left about fifteen minutes after breakfast,” she tells you. Her words are matter-of-fact, even if she delivers the news in the softest possible way.

Somehow it hurts worse that they’ve left you than finding out they’d practically sold you to the Barneses in exchange for God knows what. Drugs or territory, whatever James had said. Not only did they treat you like nothing, but they’d deserted you after it was clear you didn’t agree with their plans. They hadn’t even tried to reassure you that they still loved you or that you’d still be able to see them. Maybe you wouldn’t be. Maybe they didn’t.

You nod numbly. There’s been nothing to prepare you for this, no precursor or warning, so you keep looking around the hall, though in reality you’re not really seeing anything.

“Your room is ready upstairs, Miss Y/N. Would you like me to take you?” asks Marta.

You nod again. You feel like you’re underwater as you follow her up a grand staircase and then down a long, narrow hallway. It’s decorated similarly to the ground floor, though with a plush Persian rug running its length. Marta talks as she walks ahead of you, no doubt explaining what the many doors lead to, but her words simply go in one ear and out the other. It’s all so surreal that when you finally get to your own room, you don’t even open the door. Marta has to reach around you to open it, and then she gently ushers you inside when you still don't move.

Just as they had said at breakfast, your belongings have all been moved into the Barnes Estate. The furniture here is different, grander than what you’re used to, but your blankets and pillows are on the bed, and the two bookshelves are packed full of the books you’ve collected over the years. Even the strip from the photo booth at an old friend’s wedding is pinned to the bulletin board above the desk. Someone’s even thought to put your plants on their own table by the window.

“There’s a bathroom on the left and your closet is on the right,” Marta explains, pointing to each. “If you’re hungry, dinner is at five.”

“Do I have to eat with them?” you ask.

If Marta is surprised by your question, she doesn’t show it. She simply shakes her head with a gentle smile. “No. We can bring food here if you’d like.”

You nod and stand in silence until she leaves and closes the door behind her. Then, after another minute passes, you drag yourself over to the bed, climb under the covers, and close your eyes.

If there’s any mercy left in this life, you think, I’ll fall asleep and never wake up again.

Weeks pass and you still haven’t adjusted to life at the Barnes Estate. The staff is only slightly less friendly than those you grew up with, but they’re more attentive. It helps that there are more of them. For every member of the Barnes family, yourself included, there are at least four staff members to attend to their every need. It makes you feel like royalty, but it also makes you feel guilty. You don’t need this much. You certainly didn’t ask for it.

You haven’t seen James since the ill-fated breakfast, nor have you seen your parents. They’ve gone so far as to block your number. After that discovery, you’d locked yourself in the massive ensuite bathroom and cried for an hour. Marta had been the one to coax you out. The poor maid who’d found you when coming to get you for dinner hadn’t known how to help. You’d spent that entire evening curled up on your bed while reruns of The Nanny played on the TV embedded in the wall across from the massive mattress. Marta had spent every second with you that she could, but eventually Mrs. Barnes—Winnifred, as you referred to her in your mind—had scolded her for neglecting her nighttime duties across the estate. That made you feel even worse.

“Are you okay?” Rebecca asks, and you turn to look at her from where you’re staring out the hallway windows at the gardeners. The backyard is massive, complete with a rose garden in full bloom, an outdoor swimming pool, a forested walking trail, a large green expanse for games and parties, a gazebo, a fountain, and what seems to be stables far in the distance, though you haven’t ventured far enough to be sure. A visit to the rose garden hasn’t been brought up again either, and nothing seems interesting enough to explore on your own.

Nodding, you don’t say anything before turning back to watch the men work. They talk and laugh with each other as they prune, pick, and water. You wish that you could trade places with them.

“You don’t look okay,” she says. Rebecca props herself up on the window ledge to your right, facing you with a suspicious look on her face. “We haven’t seen you at any meals, and Valerie told me that you were crying in the bathtub three nights ago.”

You should feel ashamed, but you’re too numb to care. It feels like you’re floating through each day, detached from most things. You’ve spent your entire life thinking that you would marry for love and live happily ever after. Now, your parents have sold you to the highest bidder and your husband-to-be is a cruel, disgusting man-child that wants nothing to do with you.

Rebecca’s fingers lacing with yours jerk you back to reality and you look down at your joined hands in confusion. Her nails are bitten short and she wears a single ring with the Barnes family crest. It’s dainty and gold, a stark contrast to the many rings on her brother’s fingers.

“You’re safe here, Y/N,” she tells you, her voice gentle. “You don’t have to be alone. I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you. If I had any say in it, you could be home right now with your parents, but I’m far from the top of the totem pole.”

“I hate them.” You spit the words out and jerk your hand away from hers. “I hate my parents.”

That’s the first time you’ve ever said that in your entire life and your heart skips a beat as the anger makes your lip curl. You’re baring your teeth at her but Rebecca doesn’t even flinch. She’s a mafia princess, through and through.

“They made me believe that I could have anything I wanted, that I could marry whoever I wanted whenever I was ready, and then they threw that all away and treated me like shit the first time it was convenient for them.”

She nods. “That’s true.”

“I was so foolish to have believed them,” you growl, but the fight in you is fading just as quickly as it came. You burn bright, but you burn quickly, too.

“No,” Rebecca says, shaking her head. “You’re just human.”

You look away, embarrassed by your display of emotion as your eyes begin to water with more tears. You were raised to be reserved. You knew very little about the inner workings of your parents’ business, but you’d learned as a young girl that you’d fare better if you always clung to the edges of the room, avoiding the dirt and grime and blood that surrounded your whole life. Over the years, you’ve grown very good at hiding yourself and your emotions from the people around you. From the spark in her eye, you have the feeling that Rebecca is the exact opposite. She could hold her own if it came down to it. You couldn’t.

“It’s okay to be upset,” she insists.

Shaking your head, you take a deep breath and look back out the window. You lift your chin slightly and when Rebecca tries to rope you into another conversation with her, you ignore her and focus on the men outside. They’re finished tending to the roses on the edges of the garden. Now they’re working their way inwards.

You’re finally left alone a few minutes later and as soon as she’s around the corner, you let out a heavy sigh and relax your posture. Slumping forward, you lean forward into the window ledge, curling up just a little as you continue to watch the gardeners. The silly song from Alice in Wonderland pops into your head and you hum along, eventually mumbling to yourself about painting the roses red.

You feel a little bit like Alice, you realize. You’re out of your element in a strange land where everything you’ve learned about life seems to be turned on its head. In this world, nobody marries for love and the girls are just as entrenched in the business as the men. Does Rebecca conduct business with her father and older brother? You could certainly picture it. Will the same be expected of you?

That afternoon, Marta knocks on your door with a written invitation from Winnifred. Your presence is being formally requested at their dinner table, though from the look the housekeeper is giving you, it’s more of a demand than a request. With her help, you pick out something to wear. By the time five o’clock rolls around, you’re crossing the enormous hallway in a dress and heels that you’ve never seen before. It’s far too showy for your taste, but it’s clearly something someone wanted you to wear. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have put it in your closet.

George Barnes and James stand when you enter the dining room, as do several other men you don’t recognize. Your father is standing near the head of the table with George, though your mother and Rebecca are nowhere in sight. Besides Winnifred, you don’t recognize any of the other women. The only empty seat is beside James and your immediate instinct is to flee, but then he’s stepping aside to pull out the chair and all eyes are on you.

Slowly, you close the distance between the two of you and sit. He helps you scoot in, then takes his own seat on your right. The other men sit as well and then dinner resumes. You sit in silence, staring at the top edge of your plate with your hands in your lap. You’re not really listening to the conversations around you, either, but you can feel someone’s eyes on you as you try to stay as quiet and motionless as possible.

“Are you sick or something?”

You startle and look up with wide eyes. James is watching you. He’s got one hand on the table with his fingers brushing the stem of his wineglass and the other resting on his thigh. Unlike your fateful breakfast weeks ago, James is dressed in a neat, all-black suit. He has no tie, and his rings are all gone except one. It’s identical to Rebecca’s family crest, except his is silver and has a thicker band.

His eyes are full of something you can’t place and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. As quickly as you turned to him, you turn away and look back at your plate. The napkin is folded in some elaborate way on top of the plate. You’re not sure if it’s supposed to resemble anything at all, but maybe if you stare at it long enough, it will look like something.

“Y/N?” he prompts. You nod once, tightly, and then pull the heavy cloth napkin into your lap when a server appears to present the first course.

Between the second and third course, you can feel James’ eyes on you. After the third, he gets roped into conversation with a man sitting across the table, but you know that he’s glancing at you all the while. After the fourth, he bumps his arm against yours. You shirk away and feel him tense beside you.

“Excuse me,” you mumble, and you push your chair away from the table. Immediately, the conversations stop and all the men stand again. It’s too much attention on you and you hurry out of the dining room as fast as your heels and dress will allow. You’re stumbling over yourself by the time you get back to your suite on the third floor. The door slams behind you and you collapse onto the floor beside the bed, too overwhelmed to even climb atop the oversized mattress. You’re on the verge of tears when there’s a soft knock from the door, and that rips a sob from your chest that you hadn’t expected.

Immediately, the door opens and James is standing in the open space, a dark look on his face. You sob again and scramble backwards until the edge of the bed frame is digging painfully into your spine.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You swallow hard and take several gasping breaths, trying to control yourself. Your mind is spinning with insults, calling you weak and pathetic, and you believe every one.

“It’s just too much,” you answer through your tears. “I don’t want this!”

James huffs. His angry expression has faded, now replaced with something more akin to irritation. “And you think I do?”

You shake your head. “Of course not.”

“These are the cards we’ve been dealt, doll. You’re gonna have to get over it. Let’s just get married and then we can live happily ever after in a big house where we never have to see each other. I’ll do what I want and you can do what you want. Sound like a plan?”

You look down at your hands. A big part of you wants to say that no, it doesn’t sound like a plan. You don’t want that life. You don’t want a house so big that you practically need a golf cart to get from one side to the other. You don’t want a husband who ignores you in favor of his blood money or his side chick or the next shiny toy off the black market. You don’t want James.

Though every part of you is screaming the opposite, you nod. He crosses the room and you inhale sharply to steady yourself as he approaches you with no care. His black dress shoes are tracking dirt across the rug. James holds out a hand to help you up and you take it. The heirloom ring on his right hand digs into yours until you’re standing, and then he drops your hand like it’s on fire.

“We need to go back,” he tells you, and you nod again. “Our parents are pissed.”

“Of course they are,” you mumble.

James pauses, staring at you critically. You’ve been staring at the baseboards since he helped you up, but when he doesn’t move or speak, you glance upwards at him. He’s got one eyebrow raised. His expression is thoroughly unreadable otherwise and an unsettling feeling blooms in your stomach.

“What?” you ask. You step back a little, but there’s no place to go except up against the bed again.

He shakes his head at you. “Nothing. Come on, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.” You scrunch your nose. “Anything but that.”

“Sugar?” he offers, and when you shake your head, he sighs. “Well, what do you want me to call you, since you’re suddenly the one calling the shots?”

His words cut deep and you look back down, hating the way shame immediately pools in your belly. How could he seem angry and irritated with you, then borderline kind, and then completely disinterested in your feelings the next? It’s disorienting, and you don’t need that on top of everything else.

“That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”

Grabbing your arm in a grip just bordering on painful, James pulls you out of your bedroom and back down the hall. He holds on as you stumble behind him in your heels. When you reach the ground floor hallway again, he drops his hand and offers you his arm. You’re hesitant to take it, but he sighs a little and you decide that it’s easier to give in than to put up a fight.

The two of you walk back into the dining room and the conversations immediately hush. James leads you to your waiting seats, pulls out the chair for you, and then helps you scoot towards the table again once you’re seated. As he takes his spot beside you, your father speaks up.

“Have you and James discussed when you’ll be getting married?” he asks.

You pick up your fork and stare at the strange food on your plate, ignoring him. Though your stomach is churning, you force yourself to take a bite. He can’t expect you to answer while you’re chewing—it would be bad manners.

“Next spring,” James answers. “In the rose garden.”

You want to spit on the roses. You swallow your food instead.

“Good choice,” Mr. Barnes agrees. He turns his attention back to your father. “Your daughter is quite the well-behaved woman. She’ll do well with our James.”

Beside you, James tenses again, his grip tightening slightly on his fork. You glance at him, holding your breath, and wait until he relaxes again to take another bite of your food.

The rest of the dinner passes with mundane, meaningless conversations. Nobody addresses you for the remainder of the meal, not even your parents, and finally the men begin to make their way out of the dining room to an adjoining room. You hadn’t even realized there was a room connected; the door is hidden amongst the paneling and crown molding on the walls.

“You can’t go in there.” James grabs your wrist as you stand to follow the group of men into the new room. His voice isn’t malicious and his grip isn’t tight, but you flinch away from him anyway. It’s only then that you realize the few women that had been in the room are leaving through the door to the hall with their wineglasses in hand.

“Because I’m a woman?” you counter.

“Because you don’t want to hear the things that they’re going to discuss,” he answers. He tosses his napkin on the table and stands, towering over you. After a long second of eye contact, he steps away from you and heads towards the men.

You watch him go and silently weigh your options. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have even thought about following the men into the second room. You would have simply taken the same path as the other woman, though your wine would have continued to remain untouched. Now, however, with your wine in hand, you stood at a crossroads. You could go into the room and potentially face the wrath of your father, James, and George Barnes, or you could live forever curious as to what was actually being discussed.

With your mind made up, you down your wine, step around James, and head through the open door into the room. It’s a study with dark wood paneling on the walls, leather couches, and stale cigar smoke in the air. As soon as you enter, the laughter and conversation stop and all eyes land on you.

“Y/N, you should be with Winnie and your mother,” Mr. Barnes says, stepping towards you. James is behind you now and though you’re hedged in, you simply lift your chin at the older man.

“Why? Am I not allowed to know what family I’m marrying into?”

His face darkens. “Girl, I’m warning you—”

“Don’t speak to my wife like that.” James’ voice from over your shoulder startles you and you quickly turn your head, looking back at him with shock.

Why is he suddenly standing up for me?

“Hold your tongue, James,” his father snaps. “You aren’t married yet, and Y/N needs to learn her place. One would think her father would have taught her better, considering the problems his wife caused.”

Though you hate your parents for what they’ve done to you, your blood boils at the insult. Your anger rears its ugly head even more when you realize that your father doesn’t look intent on standing up for you or your mom, either.

“That’s enough!”

You swear the room rattles around you when James shouts and you grit your teeth, furious at Mr. Barnes. How dare he insult your father? How dare he talk to you and his son that way?

James grabbing your hand shocks you back into reality. Once again, his grip is almost painfully tight, but you force your face to reveal nothing.

“Y/N and I are going out. If I so much as hear that you’ve said a single thing about her in my absence, you will regret ever giving me any kind of power in this business,” he growls. “The next time you see her, I expect that you’ll treat her with the respect she deserves.”

The men stare at you and James in disbelief, and then you find yourself being practically dragged out of the room. You’re too stunned to fight back, so you let him pull you across the ground floor of the estate to a door only two down from the dark room where you’d hit the morning your parents had left you behind.

“We’ll have to take the car, unless you’re okay riding the bike in that dress,” James says, pushing open the door. He doesn’t look back at you as he speaks, and it takes you a second to realize he wants a response.

“Car,” you answer after a few seconds. “Please.”

The room James has led you to is a massive garage, stretching farther than you ever realized a similar room could. Three of the walls are made of light gray cement, as are the floor and ceiling, and the fourth wall is made up of windowed garage doors, each one big enough for several cars to drive through simultaneously. Running down the center of the rectangular garage, there is a row of seven parked cars, with enough space to fit at least another car between each one, and beyond that, you can see a row of several motorcycles parked in a similar manner. The cars are in varying shades of gray and black, with the exception of one red sports car at the far end of the group. You can’t see the bikes well enough from the door, but you catch glimpses of blue, silver, gray, and black.

Four enormous, black and silver tool chests are lined up against the wall facing the hoods of the cars, but there isn’t a spot of oil or dirt in sight. You don’t even see any loose tools or equipment. Looking around, you wonder if the tool chests are just there for decoration, or if someone on the estate actually works on the cars and motorcycles.

Maybe James works on them?

“Are all of these yours?” you ask, unable to help yourself. He seems like the kind of guy who would enjoy driving around for fun, and he’s just mentioned something about a bike. You stare at the side of James’ face as he plucks a set of keys off a black pegboard on the wall. There’s a button embedded in the wall beside the board. James pushes it with one thumb and the keys in his hand bump against the wall.

One of the garage doors near the last few cars starts to roll upwards onto the ceiling, revealing the outside of the estate. The sun has completely disappeared from the sky, and the moonlight is blocked by the clouds you’d seen rolling in earlier in the afternoon. The leaves of the large shade trees that surround the estate and form a protective shield from the outside world rustle in the wind. Crickets and cicadas chirp, reminding you of the cool spring nights you’d spent on your family estate as a little girl. You’d run around in the grass near the garden while your mom or your nanny watched you. Sometimes your father’s men would watch from the perimeter of the property, and when you’d wave, they’d wave back, asking what you’d done that day. You always answered them, even if you knew it would get you in trouble. They never stopped asking either, even if it got them in trouble, too.

You stop walking and close your eyes, then breathe in deeply as the night air rushes into the garage. It’s the first time you’ve been even close to the outdoors since arriving at the Barnes Estate. Your skin is still warm from the stifling dining room and the anger you’d felt in the men’s study. The breeze is a blessed relief, even if you do shiver after only a moment. Goosebumps form on your exposed skin—the dress Marta had picked out for you did little to keep you safe from the elements.

James keeps walking down the aisle formed by the wall and the front of the cars, though you hear his footsteps pause a few moments after you stop following him.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You’re a little surprised that he’s not demanding that you catch up. When you open your eyes, you immediately meet his gaze, and a weird feeling bubbles up in your stomach. The expression on his face betrays little, but his stare reminds you of the way your father’s men looked at you all those years ago—interested and almost fond, but ready to push you away at a moment’s notice. You nod and hurry to catch up with him.

Once you get closer, James presses a button on the key fob in his hand. One of the cars in front of the open garage door rumbles to life. The sound it makes is a low purr, almost seductive, and you raise an eyebrow as James approaches, then runs his fingers over the hood. Even if the others aren’t, this car has to be his. It’s a sleek black, with dark tinted windows and a gleaming silver grill in the front. The BMW logo shines proudly in the center. It looks like a car your own father would own. Though you know he’s never owned a BMW, if this car is anything like the ones in your father’s fleet, you know that the inside will be as much a picture of luxury as the outside.

You slide into the passenger seat when James opens the door for you, and in the time it takes him to cross around the front of the car to the driver’s side, you take inventory of the interior. It’s a manual transmission—something your father once said was obsolete, except for car collectors and enthusiasts—which means that you wouldn’t be able to drive it, even if you tried. The car is pristine, so much so that you’re afraid to move. Two water bottles are in the cupholders, and it still smells brand new inside. There isn’t a speck of dirt or dust on the dashboard, nor on the floor mats. The leather seat is soft and there’s a control for seat warming and cooling on the control panel.

James climbs into the driver’s seat and shuts the door. He buckles up and you follow his lead, and then you sit back as he reverses the car out of the garage and onto a winding driveway that leads you around the front of the estate, then along the other side to a large gate with a guard house. You’d forgotten about the extensive security since the last time you’d been outside the Barnes Estate. Your father had handed over your driver’s license, along with his and your mother’s, before breakfast all those weeks ago, and there’d been a strange code word of some kind. It dawns on you as the guard opens the gate for you and James that you’d never gotten your license back.

“Where are we going?” you ask as James pulls onto the main road. It leads away from the estate and into the city.

“To get some real food,” he replies. His tone is gruff, and it feels like he’s on the verge of an angry outburst, so you slump back in your seat as he shifts gears and the car accelerates. The tension in the car is thick. You don’t want to be the one to deal with it, especially since he’s the one creating it.

After several minutes of watching the enormous mansions and the forests surrounding them pass by, you look over at James again. His expression, just like in the garage, reveals nothing, but you can tell that he’s more put-together than the last time you’d interacted, and it’s not just the tailored suit. His hair has been trimmed and styled, and he has an even dusting of stubble that frames his jawline nicely.

In the time since you’d learned you were engaged, James hasn’t said anything to you. You’ve heard him talking in the hallways as you wandered, but you haven’t wanted to be near him. This is the closest you’ve ever been. Your brief conversations so far tonight make up the majority of the words you’ve spoken to each other. His words from the bedroom echo in your head, until finally, you can’t help but blurt out your thoughts.

“Do you really not want to marry me?” you ask. Your voice sounds small and pathetic, and you hate it, but it’s too late now.

He glances over at you with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear shift. “What do you mean?”

You sit up a little in the seat, though you keep your hands in your lap and you try not to move your feet, just in case there’s dirt on your shoes.

“I mean,” you say, watching him carefully for his reaction, “that when you came to get me upstairs, you said you didn’t want to marry me. Is that really true?”

“I never said that.” He shifts gears again as you near a stoplight, and the car slows.

“Yes, you did.”

“No,” he shifts again, his teeth now clenched, “I didn’t. I asked if it looked like I wanted to marry you, and you said it didn’t. But I never said I didn’t want to.”

Now you’re confused, and you frown at him, ignoring the obvious irritation in his voice. The car rolls to a stop behind a Ferrari blasting music out the open windows.

“So you do want to marry me?” you ask.

He sighs and drops his hand from the gear shift, then looks over at you. “Y/N, I’m not going to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do, so if this is you testing to see how I’ll treat you, then you have nothing to worry about. I’m not a monster.”

“It’s not. I just…” You stop, unsure of how to phrase what you’re feeling. It’s strange to be upset over a marriage you don’t even want, but for some reason, you are.

“What?”

“If you don’t want to marry me and I don’t want to marry you, then why are we going along with this?” you finally ask, settling for the bigger question than the one that’s truly nagging at you.

“Because we know that if we don’t, life will be hell,” he answers.

It’s the truth. You know it is, and you know it deep down. If the two of you refuse this marriage, your life will be worse than you could possibly imagine, and you’re fairly certain that your fathers will find a way to make it happen anyhow. They’re well-connected in every sphere of life, not just when it comes to drugs and weapons. Your father probably has a priest on his payroll.

The light turns green and James moves the car forward again, merging into the right lane almost immediately. He slows as you approach a valet stand outside an upscale bar you’ve never heard of. It’s not one of your father’s, which means it probably belongs to George Barnes.

Then again, you think as a uniformed man opens your door, maybe it belongs to James.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Barnes,” a valet on the other side of the car greets.

James hands him the keys. “You too, Tommy. Listen, don’t park it too far off. We’re not staying too long.”

The man nods and climbs into the driver’s seat as your own valet leads you away from the curb. James meets you next to the valet stand and offers you his arm, then heads towards the doors.

“What is this place?” you ask as he holds open the door for you.

“My friend’s bar,” James says.

Your stomach twists itself in knots as heavy club music starts to get louder. The bass rumbles in your chest and you dig your nails into his arm as you near a set of glossy black double doors. You haven’t been to a club in a long time. The last time you’d gone, you’d been dragged by a childhood acquaintance, but you’d spent most of the night alone after she’d ditched you for someone she met on the dance floor. You’re not particularly eager to relive that experience tonight, especially with the man you’re being forced to marry. Who’s to say he won’t ditch you for someone else right in front of you, just to rub it in your face? After all, he’d said it himself in the bedroom—you’ll do what you want and he’ll do what he wants. It’s the cards you’ve been dealt.

If these are the cards, then I’ve got a sucky hand.

“James—”

“Bucky.”

You stop and squint at him in the low light of the entrance hallway. The two bouncers in all-black suits stop with their hands on the door handles, ready to open them for you once you start walking again. The music pounds in your ears, so much so that you can feel your eardrums vibrating.

“What?” you ask, not sure you’d heard him correctly.

“Bucky,” repeats James, a little louder this time. “You should call me Bucky, if we’re going to be married.”

“Is that… a nickname?”

Even in the darkness, you can see him laugh, and a bashful, boyish smile spreads across his face. “My middle name is Buchanan. Steve used to tease me about it when we were kids, and he started calling me Bucky as a joke. It caught on.” He shrugs it off, but there’s a fondness in his voice when he speaks of his childhood friend, and it makes you smile just a little.

You loosen your grip on his arm. “Okay then. Bucky,” you add.

When Bucky steps forward again, the doors are pulled open, revealing a much more casual bar than you could’ve anticipated. Though it’s clean, it looks a little run down, and the heavy music fades into jazz piano as you step through the open doorway and into the large, open space. With almost cathedral-height ceilings, walnut floors and support pillars, and well-worn wooden booths and tables, the bar feels more homier than you’d expected. It’s clearly been well-hidden from the busy crowds of New York. Only a few patrons are scattered around the room, sitting in the booths or at two-top tables, but Bucky leads you to the wood, u-shaped bar that juts out into the room from the back wall. A single man stands behind it, drying glasses with a white bar towel. He smiles when he looks up and sees you approaching.

“Bucky,” he greets, and he reaches over the bar to pull Bucky in for a hug. It’s the first time you see Bucky smile—a real, full, genuine smile—and you watch in silence as he hugs his friend.

“Steve,” Bucky replies. Instantly, your brain starts connecting the dots. This is his childhood friend, the one who gave him his nickname.

“Tá sé go maith tú a fheiceáil.” Steve turns his attention to you, and you quickly look away from Bucky and at him. Your brain whirs as you try to place the language he’s just spoken. It’s not one you’ve heard before, which means none of your father’s men speak it, and neither do any of the Barneses.

“You must be Y/N.”

You nod and offer Steve a small, polite smile. You’re not sure how to act around Bucky’s friends. If they’re also part of the mob, it’s possible they’ll treat you even worse than George Barnes had after dinner, but a new, surprising voice in your head argues that Bucky would never be friends with someone like that.

“It’s okay,” reassures Bucky. He reaches out and touches your arm, gentler than he has all evening. “Steve’s a nice guy, and he knows about our family businesses. You can trust him.”

Steve looks between the two of you before picking up a glass and setting it right-side-up in front of you. “What’ll it be, Y/N?”

You glance at him, then at the wall of liquor behind him. After a moment, you list off a drink that’s not your favorite, but that you know you’ll be able to stomach no matter the circumstances. Steve nods in response before starting to make it.

Silently, Bucky takes one of the chairs at the bar, and you do the same. He sits with his arms folded on the counter. He’s still wearing his suit from dinner. You feel a little out of place in your fancy clothes, and you wonder if he feels the same.

Your drink is placed in front of you a moment later, and after Steve’s silent prompting, you take a sip. It’s delicious, and you can’t help but smile at him.

“Aha, I’ve still got it!” Steve cheers, and you laugh. He grins at you, a charming type of smile that makes your heart flutter in your chest. You feel a little sheepish at the intensity of his joy, and you fidget in your seat, then with your hair.

Beside you, Bucky rolls his eyes and tosses a round paper coaster at his friend. “Knock it off, Rogers,” he huffs. “Stop flirting with my girl. You’ve already got one of your own.”

You glance over when he calls you that, but you don’t say anything. There’s another weird feeling in your gut now. This one, unlike the one you’d had in the car or the fluttering feeling Steve had given you, you recognize immediately—pride. It feels good to have Bucky call you “his girl”, even if you barely know him. It’s strange, and the thought makes you squirm in your seat again. You drop your hand down to the bartop and take another sip of your drink, trying to quell the strange feelings inside of you.

What is going on with me? Why can’t I just feel normal about all of this? Is there even a normal way to feel about this?

“You hungry?” asks Bucky, and you nod when you realize he’s talking to you again.

“I make a mean twice-baked potato,” Steve says. He plants his hands on the bar to look between the two of you. “Whaddaya say, Y/N? You up for it?”

“Only if you put the jalapeños on the side this time, punk,” Bucky tells him before you can reply. He seems to remember himself a second later, however, because he looks over at you. “Unless, of course, you want them on top.”

You shrug, not wanting to upset anyone, and Steve groans.

“Come on, Y/N,” he says, and he smiles wide as he gestures around the almost-empty bar. “I’ve got all the time in the world to make your food exactly the way you want it. Don’t make me guess.”

“He’s bad at guessing,” Bucky chimes in.

“Terrible,” Steve adds, nodding earnestly.

Tentatively, you list off what you want, and Steve makes a note of everything on a notepad that seems to appear out of nowhere. Once he’s got your order down, he disappears through a door in the back wall. Before it closes, you catch a glimpse of a shining kitchen filled with stainless steel, and you wonder how many patrons come through the bar if Steve has what looks to be a full-sized kitchen in the back.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner, so I figured I’d bring you someplace that actually has good food,” Bucky says. He reaches across the bar to grab a bottle of beer Steve has left out, and he uses one hand to pry the top off.

You gape at him, too distracted by the blatant show of strength to properly process the very thoughtful thing he’s just said to you. “What?”

“I said that you didn’t eat much at dinner, so I figured—”

“You just pulled the top off like it was nothing. How did you do that?” You look around on Steve’s side of the bar for another bottle, hoping to try your luck. Maybe it’s some new kind of bottle that he’s trying out before it hits the market, or maybe Steve has bootleg beer with a different kind of cap.

Bucky is staring at you, seemingly just as confused as you. “With my arm.”

“With your arm?” you repeat. You’re certain that he’d used his hand to pry it off.

He stares at you for a second longer before the confusion disappears and is replaced with a glint of mischief in his eyes. It makes the shadows on his face melt away a little, and his blue irises seem bright and youthful again, entirely unlike a man who’s seen too much.

“My arm,” he reiterates, and then he pulls off the black glove you’d assumed to be part of his personal style. It’s not just for show, however, because he pulls it off to reveal a black metal hand with dull gold knuckles. Bucky continues, standing and shrugging off his jacket, then rolling up the sleeve of his button-down shirt. As he reveals more and more, you realize that the black metal continues, making up what would be his left arm.

No wonder it hurt when he grabbed me.

“It’s metal,” you dumbly say, and he snorts.

“Observant.”

You shake your head and look from his arm to meet his eyes. “You have a metal arm. How didn’t I know that?”

Bucky shrugs and drapes his jacket over the back of the chair. He leaves the glove on the bar where he’d first set it down. Once he’s seated again, he rolls up his other sleeve to match.

“Beats me. I figured everyone knew. My dad wasn’t subtle when he was bragging about the arm he had made for me when it first happened,” replies Bucky. He takes a sip of his beer, then sighs and sets it back down.

You don’t want to pity him, so you try your best to school your expression by taking a sip of your own drink.

“Was it an accident?” you ask after a minute has passed. He doesn’t reply right away, and you scramble to save the conversation. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen,” he says, and his voice is quieter than before.

You look back down at the drink in front of you. Twisting the glass around and around, you ask, “And it was an accident?”

Bucky takes another swig of his beer. “I was with my dad, working a job. I didn’t even realize I’d been injured until I woke up in the hospital, two weeks later, missing an arm. Apparently, falling shipping containers are heavy.”

You can’t help but curse. What he’s describing sounds horrible, but Bucky only laughs.

“That sounds about right, yeah. I’m lucky I had Steve around to keep me sane,” he tells you. “My friend Sam was a big help too, but he moved down to Louisiana a few years ago.”

“Steve seems like a good friend,” you agree. “They both do.”

You can feel Bucky staring at you now, and you take a sip of your drink while you wait for him to look away again. When he doesn’t, you glance in his direction.

“What?” you ask.

“What?”

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are!” you laugh, and you look at him fully this time. Bucky’s grinning, and you ball up a cocktail napkin and toss it at him.

“Okay, I was staring,” he admits, still smiling. “But I can’t help it. You’re pretty, and you’re nice, and you seem smart.”

You feel your cheeks grow warm at the compliment, and you look away. “You don’t have to say that. We’re already engaged.”

“I’m not saying it because we’re engaged. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

You don’t have a chance to reply before Steve comes out with two hot plates. He places them in front of you, joking briefly about giving you the wrong order, and it’s distraction enough that you sit up tall and smile wide. You push Bucky’s compliment out of your head as you chow down, groaning and moaning about the potatoes. They’re exactly what you need after the stressful dinner. Bucky was right—you hadn’t eaten much, and Steve’s cooking is delicious.

Once you’re full, you push your plate away and lean back in your chair. Steve grins at you before he goes back to counting the cash drawer. The other patrons have left already, leaving you, Steve, and Bucky alone in the bar.

“That was amazing,” you tell him for the hundredth time, and Steve chuckles.

“Thank you. I’ll be sure to tell mo bhean chéile—my wife—you said that, considering she still believes potatoes aren��t a meal.”

You notice the wedding band on his left hand as soon as he says it. Above it, also in silver, is a familiar ring. If you weren’t able to see the family crest, you would’ve thought it was the same as Bucky’s, but this ring has an eagle and a star engraved on it, rather than the wolf you’ve seen on Rebecca and Bucky’s rings.

“Potatoes are a meal!” you argue. You can tell that Steve has clocked you looking at his rings because he shifts his hand, instinctively blocking your view as he looks for your own ring. You’d taken your parent’s ring off the day you’d cried in the bathtub and you haven’t worn it since, but no one in Bucky’s family has replaced it with their own. It’s the first time since middle school that you haven’t worn a family ring, and you’d be lying if you said it was a weight off your shoulders. You’d thought it might be, but instead it just makes you feel naked.

Steve laughs and his posture relaxes. He stops hiding his rings from you when he realizes your hands are bare. “Well, whenever you meet her, you can have that argument with her, because I’ve already had it at least a dozen times.” He closes the drawer and fixes his eyes on Bucky, who’s just finishing his food. “Speaking of, when are you two coming over? I promised Peg I’d wait until Y/N had settled in to ask, and you seem settled enough to me.” He glances at you for the last part, and you look down at your empty plate.

“It’s not up to me,” answers Bucky. “We’ll come over whenever Y/N is ready. This is the first time we’ve been together since my dad dropped the bomb on us.”

Steve pauses, his hands on the tablet he’d set down before starting to count the night’s profits. “Wait. Really?”

You nod when he looks at you, suddenly self-conscious again, and you pull your hands into your lap. “I haven’t been the best house guest…”

“You’re not a guest, Y/N. It’s your home now, too,” Bucky interjects.

Reaching over the counter, Steve smacks the side of Bucky’s head. His accent is thick when he huffs, “Íosa Críost, you thick! You didn’t think to go talk to her? To see if she wanted to watch a movie? To see if she needed anything?”

Bucky stammers over in his seat, and you keep your head ducked to hide your smile. Clearly, Steve knows more about being married than Bucky does—most likely from experience, since he’s already mentioned his wife—and he isn’t afraid to tell his friend off for not looking out for your well-being.

“I’m sorry!” exclaims Bucky, ducking another hit. “I wasn’t thinking!”

“Like ifreann you weren’t!” Steve retreats and picks up the tablet with a huff, then looks at you. “Y/N, I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with him. He’s actually a nice guy when he’s not being stupid.”

“Stupid?” Bucky protests beside you.

“I wouldn’t have talked to him even if he’d tried,” you admit, finally looking up, “but it wouldn’t have hurt if he had.”

Steve nods, satisfied with your response. He leaves you a minute later when his phone rings. The wide smile on his face is enough to tell you who’s on the other end, but then he says her name as he walks away, the phone already held to his ear.

“So what’s with this place?” you ask. The quick change in subject is purposeful, and you hope that Bucky will take the bait.

Thankfully, he does. Bucky glances around before finishing off the last of his drink and setting the empty bottle closer to Steve’s side of the bar.

“Well, Steve wanted a place that we—and other people like us—could spend time without feeling like there was always a fight about to happen. We didn’t have that growing up, you know? And now that he’s in charge, he can do what he wants with his money. Everything’s filed properly, he doesn’t advertise, and all employees are paid above the table. If other people show up, then sure, they’re welcomed in, but they’re also fully vetted once Steve gets their IDs. Weapons aren’t allowed, and there’s no shop talk of any kind.”

“So it’s your little hideaway,” you say, propping your head up with one hand. The heaviness of the potatoes combined with the alcohol is starting to make you sleepy, and the emotional exhaustion from the night has started to weigh heavy on you, too.

He smiles a little. “Something like that.”

Bucky stands and rolls his sleeves back down, then pulls on his glove. He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket and sets it on the bar.

“Come on, doll. We should head home,” he says.

The warm feeling you’d felt when Bucky had called you his girl comes back, and you smile a little when he holds open his suit jacket for you. A little sheepish at the gesture, you slide off your seat and let him help you into the sleeves, then take Bucky’s hand when he offers it.

“Bye Steve!” you call, waving with your free hand.

Steve looks up from the other end of the bar, where he’s wiping down a counter with one hand and holding his phone with the other. He lets go of the rag to wave back.

Silently, Bucky leads you out to the front, where the valet already has his car pulled up. You’re not sure how they knew to have it ready, but you don’t dwell on it. Stranger things have happened in your world. Bucky tips the valets with another wad of cash before opening the passenger door and helping you in.

You fall asleep on the drive home. You don’t mean to, but Bucky turns on the radio a few minutes into the drive, and he lets the first station that comes on continue to play. The music is soft, and he drives so smoothly that it lulls you to sleep before you’re even fully out of the city.

When you wake, it’s because Bucky’s stubbed his toe on something, jostling you in his arms. He’s muttering curses under his breath and hobbling down the hallway, and though the jerking motion and his tightening grip isn’t the most comfortable for you at the moment, you keep your eyes closed and force yourself to keep your smile at bay. Bucky is a much sweeter guy than you’d first thought him to be, and it seems like he’s trying now to make up for lost time. You’d misjudged him at first; just like you, he has his own ways of dealing with the life forced on him by his parents, but he really is a gentleman underneath it all.

He carries you to your bedroom and carefully lays you on top of the covers. Then, as gently as possible, you feel him lift your foot and pry off the uncomfortable shoes Marta had picked out for you. Bucky stays totally silent as he takes the shoes off and sets them on the floor at the end of the bed. He pulls a thin blanket over you, one that you’re sure is just for decoration when the bed is made, and presses a kiss to the side of your head. You have to force yourself not to smile when he whispers,

“Goodnight, sleep tight.”

The door clicks shut as he closes it slowly, and you peek open an eye after a few seconds have passed. Your room is dark and empty. Silently, you smile to yourself and crawl under the covers, your eyes heavy. It’s been a long, exhausting evening, and you’re happy to be in bed. You fall asleep to the sound of spring rain on the estate windows and with Bucky’s jacket still wrapped around you.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky slowly enters your life in both big and small ways. He smiles at you over meals in the dining room and late night snacks in the kitchen. He drives you to the city to visit Steve, Peggy, and his other friends, and when he finds out that his father still has your license, Bucky argues with him for over an hour to get it back. Marta delivers your license to your room the very next day, along with a handwritten note that the dark blue Mercedes in the garage is there for your use. Sometimes, you wake up to a bouquet of flowers with another handwritten note. Sometimes it’s a text, and sometimes it’s a gift. Bucky develops a habit of purchasing anything you mention enjoying or even vaguely liking, and you eventually have to tell him to stop because he’s bought you so much that there’s nothing left to buy for yourself.

Bucky turns out to be a closer friend than anyone you’ve ever known. He’s kind, and funny, and intelligent, and he remembers all the little things about you that nobody else does. When you’re sick or feeling lonely, he’s attentive and his presence alone reminds you of all the good things in the world. He makes your days brighter, even the worst ones. You find yourself falling in love with him, much to your surprise. You admit this to him one day. He kisses you then, and he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first trip you’d taken to Steve’s bar.

Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas roll around. New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, and Easter come and go. The Barnes’ grand celebrations for every holiday blur together as the months fly by, until eventually, it’s June and you’re standing in your room, staring at your reflection in the full-length mirror.

The wedding dress you’d picked out a few days after Christmas is just as beautiful as you remember it being. It fits you perfectly, thanks to the impeccable work of several tailors employed by Winnifred, and your hair and makeup are flawless as well. There’s no possible way you could’ve imagined how beautiful you look and feel on your wedding day.

Through the open window, you can hear a string quartet playing outside in the rose garden, where the ceremony is set up. Steve has already come by once to check on you at Bucky’s request, but both men are back downstairs. Bucky’s no doubt at the front of the garden with the priest—the one that you now know for certain is on your father’s payroll—and Steve is waiting with the rest of the wedding party. The only people remaining in your room are Marta, your mother, and Peggy.

You’ve grown to love Peggy more than any of your childhood friends. She didn’t grow up in the same world as you. She didn’t even grow up in the same country, and you love her all the more for it. She’s rational, cool-headed, and kind, though she’s not afraid to stand up for what’s right. On top of all that, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. It’s easy to see why Steve fell for her during his time in the military.

The quartet finishes the song and moves onto a new one, one that you recognize after only two notes. Your stomach drops and you close your eyes, gripping your bouquet tightly. It’s the song you’d been listening to the morning you’d found out about your engagement. You’d discovered it the night before, and you’d had it on repeat before going to sleep that night, then again that morning as you’d gotten ready. You’d even listened to it in the car on the drive from your parents’ estate.

Who added this to the playlist? Is this some kind of sick joke to them?

The same feeling of dread you’d felt that morning comes back, making your mouth dry and your head spin. You try to take a slow, deep breath to calm your nerves and block out the song, but it doesn’t work.

“Y/N?” Peggy asks.

You inhale sharply at the sound of her voice so close to you. She’d been texting Steve from near the window only moments before. You hadn’t thought that anyone would realize your distress, and you’d hoped to be able to collect yourself before it was noticeable. You hadn’t even sensed her coming closer.

“Y/N, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you tell her, but your voice wavers and your lower lip quivers. You try to take another slow breath.

“What’s going on?” Marta asks. Her hand lands on your arm and you pull away, closing in yourself and pulling the bouquet tight against you.

Your mother’s scolding makes you feel like you’re a little kid again. “Careful, Y/N! You don’t want to ruin those flowers. We don’t have time to make another bouquet for you. George is already hounding your father about how soon after the ceremony you’ll be signing the certificate.”

Anger wells up in you at her thoughtless comment, and you open your eyes. She’s standing behind you in the main part of the bedroom, near the foot of your bed. Any guilt you might’ve felt over ruining the flowers is gone now, and you turn and chuck the bouquet at the carpet by her feet. It bounces once, then lays motionless in a heap of smashed petals and ribbons.

“Enough, Mother!” you shout.

Marta rushes to close the window so the guests in the garden won’t hear your outburst.

Your mother gapes at you, somewhat surprised, but she doesn’t budge. “Y/N, dear. What are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” you yell, stepping closer. Your dress swishes as you walk, and you normally enjoy the sound, but you’re too furious to care how pleasing it is. “What are you doing? I am your only daughter! You should be treating me like a princess and worrying about how I’m feeling and what I need, but instead you’re too busy thinking about the damn flowers! I’m sick of you thinking of me like I’m an object you can sell, steal, and trade away whenever it’s most convenient! You and Dad are so obsessed with the timeline you’ve created for yourselves that you don’t even notice how much this has affected me! You didn’t even ask if this is what I wanted!”

She scoffs at you, and any trace of motherly care and concern has disappeared from her expression. Your mother is showing her true face—the mafia wife that has almost as much blood on her own hands as her husband does, if not more.

“It’s too late for that now, isn’t it?” she asks. She picks up her clutch from the end of your bed and steps closer until you're standing eye to eye. Her voice is patronizing and infuriating, and she continues, “It’s your wedding day, dearest, and you can’t back out now. We’ve made sure of it. Even James has agreed to the contract.”

Your anger wavers. “Contract?”

“Yes, the contract,” she repeats, smirking. Her cards are all on the table now, and she’s got a winning hand. You both know it.

There’s a malicious glint in her eye as she says, “It’s already in effect. It has been since we agreed on the marriage.”

“What contract? What are you talking about?” There’s a sinking feeling in your chest, like your heart has decided to drop into your stomach, then down to your feet and through the floor. Bucky hadn’t said anything to you about a contract, and you trusted him, but you certainly didn’t trust your parents anymore, nor did you trust George and Winnifred Barnes.

Your mother smiles, a sickeningly sweet smile that makes you want to puke. “That’s a conversation for another time. After all, it doesn’t even matter to you until James gets you pregnant.”

The alarm on your phone rings and you close your eyes, your hands trembling. You’d set that alarm to remind you when it was time to leave for the ceremony. Right on cue, the wedding planner knocks on the door to your bedroom.

“Y/N?” she calls, knocking again. “Are you ready?”

Slowly, you squat down and pick up the bouquet. It’s smashed on one side and the petals have fallen off of various flowers, but it’s mostly intact. It shakes as your hands tremble and tears well up in your eyes.

Marta appears in front of you, having pushed your mother out of the way, and over the ringing in your ears, you hear Peggy talking to the wedding planner. Somehow, you make it out to the ground floor of the estate, to the double doors that lead out to the rose garden. You’re dazed by your mother’s strange revelation. The sound of the alarm is still ringing in your ears. Peggy says something to you, but you can only stare straight ahead.

Your father is next to you then, as Peggy disappears through the doors and joins the rest of the wedding party. You see her glancing back at you, and whispering to the rest of the groomsmen and bridesmaids. Most of them are Bucky’s friends who have now become your own, and all of them look worried.

“Let’s go, princess,” your father says, and he pulls you forward by the arm.

Numbly, you follow his lead. Not even Bucky’s initially delighted expression shakes you out of your trance, but the way he rubs his thumb over your hands at the end of the aisle pulls you out of it just enough for you to lift your head and look around. You don’t remember walking to him, nor do you remember handing off your bouquet to Peggy, just like you’d practiced last night at the rehearsal.

“Y/N? Darling?” Bucky asks. He crouches and tilts his head slightly to try to catch your eyes. “You okay?”

“I—” Your mouth is still dry and you swallow, your eyes flitting from one place in the garden to another with no rhyme or reason. The world feels like it’s spinning and you clutch Bucky’s hands, unsure of what to do.

“Someone get her a chair,” Bucky orders, raising his voice enough that you flinch. He immediately starts murmuring reassurances to you, and he pulls you into his arms until he can lower you into a seat.

Someone fans you and a cool glass is pressed to your lips. You drink obediently, closing your eyes as the water helps the sandy feeling in your mouth abate just a little. When the water is gone, the glass is pulled away.

“Y/N, can you hear me?” Bucky asks.

Slowly, carefully, you nod your head. He sighs in relief and when you open your eyes, he’s kneeling down in front of you. His shoulders are tense and his forehead is creased with worry. You’ve never seen him this stressed over anything and it makes you want to cry.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, heat flaming in your cheeks. You feel horrible. Bucky has been looking forward to the ceremony—he’d told you last night at the rehearsal dinner.

“It’s okay,” he quickly replies. He reaches forward and takes your hands, and you glance away from him to peek at the guests, your parents included, who are still watching you from their seats.

“Are you ready for this, or do you need a break?”

You look back at Bucky. “A break?”

“She’s fine,” your mother says, and you look over at her from your seat. She’s standing in the front row, her eyes fixated on the priest behind you. “They’re fine, Father. Y/N’s been a bit nervous all morning. Wedding day jitters, you know.”

“I—” You frown at her, still clutching Bucky’s hands. “That’s not what it is.” You look down at him and shake your head. “I’m not nervous to marry you.”

“I’m not nervous either,” he says with a small smile.

“Then shall we continue?” the priest asks.

You turn to shake your head at him. “No. I’m sorry, Father. I need to talk to Bucky—James—in private for just a minute. Is that alright?”

He smiles gently and nods. “Of course.”

There are more agitated murmurs from the crowd, but you ignore them as Peggy, Steve, and Bucky help you up and back down the aisle. When your mother moves to follow you, she’s blocked by Sam and Clint, another one of Bucky’s friends. She calls after you once, but you ignore her as Peggy helps you onto a bench inside, then leaves, closing the double doors behind herself. She’s handed back your bouquet, and you clutch it with both hands like it’s an anchor in the storm.

“Is everything okay?” Bucky asks. He stands near the door, and you can tell from the way he rolls his shoulders that he’s stressed. His prosthetic always bothers him more when he’s agitated, and you suddenly feel even worse about stopping the ceremony.

“Yes,” you say, but then you shake your head. “No, I’m sorry. Obviously, it’s not, or I wouldn’t have stopped everything. I’m sorry, Bucky, but I have to ask you something.”

“Okay…” There’s a wariness in his eyes, one that you loathe yourself for. You put it there, and you wish with all your might that your mother hadn’t told you what she did. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had to do this.

“Did you sign a contract? With our parents?”

He frowns and his whole body grows very still. “A contract?”

You nod. “Yes.” With your hands still fisted tightly around the bouquet, you inhale deeply and add, “A contract about getting me pregnant.”

“What?” Bucky’s furious response is immediate. He shakes his head, his eyes searching your face for any sign that you might be making this up. “Y/N, what are you talking about?”

“Did you sign a contract agreeing to marry me, and agreeing that my parents get something after you get me pregnant?” The words make you sick to your stomach. You haven’t eaten anything all day, which doesn’t help, but the thought of Bucky agreeing to something so vile… It’s enough to make anyone nauseous.

He’s shaking his head at you again. “Why the hell would I sign anything like that? Do you really think I would do that?”

You shrug a little and look down at the bouquet. “My mother…”

“Darling…” Bucky sighs and comes closer, and he kneels down in front of you again, just like he had outside. All the fight and anger has left his voice. “I would never do anything like that. Not in a million years, and especially not to you. I love you.”

“She said you signed it before they’d even told me we were engaged,” you said, quiet now that he’s so close. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, to see what his face might be telling you that his words aren’t.

“Can you look at me? Please?”

Reluctantly, you lift your eyes from the flowers in your lap to meet Bucky’s eyes. They’re just as blue as the ribbons wrapped around the flower stems, a choice you’d specifically made without the wedding planner’s guidance. You’d wanted him to be your “something blue”, even if it felt a little cheesy.

“Do you want to marry me?” Bucky asks.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod. “Yes.”

“Do you believe me when I say I had nothing to do with that contract? That I didn’t know it existed?” he questions.

You nod again, tears forming in your eyes.

“And do you trust me to help you find a way to get rid of it, once all of this is over? Do you trust me to protect you?”

You nod for the third time, and Bucky takes both of your hands in his.

“Okay. Then let’s get married, and I swear to you that as soon as our honeymoon is over, the guys and I will start doing some digging.”

“What about me?” you ask, sniffling. You pull one of your hands away to dab at your eyes before the makeup can get too damaged by your tears.

“What about you?”

“Can I dig, too?”

Bucky chuckles and kisses your knuckles on the hand that he’s holding, and then he pulls himself up off the floor to sit beside you on the bench. He pulls you into a half-hug and you cling to him, sniffling and smiling as he rubs the your back and answers,

“You can do all the digging you want, doll. I’ll even hand you the shovel.”

Tá sé go maith tú a fheiceáil. = It’s good to see you.

Mo bhean chéile = My wife

Íosa Críost = Jesus Christ

Thick = A stupid person

Ifreann = Hell

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider reblogging my work so that others can enjoy it too.

I do not consent to have my work posted, translated, or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere other than my personal tumblr, Patreon, or ao3 accounts, it has been reposted without my permission.

If you want to support me further, consider buying me a ko-fi! My ko-fi is also under my SPN fanfiction blog, but I promise it’s me.

If you would like to be added to my tags, please send me a message or an ask! I tag for Everything, Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson, and Peter Parker.

Forever: @aya-fay

Bucky Barnes: @lipstickandvibranium @valhalla-kristin @buckymcbuckbarnes

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brnesblogposts · 3 days

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monster in his nightmares

pairing bucky barnes x reader

warnings ANGST!!!

a/n can you guys let me know if you can click on my master list and are directed to my fics because it’s not working for me.

reblogs appreciated if you enjoyed !

You can’t breathe, you can’t breathe. Your neck is being squeezed so tight your vision spotting as panic takes over.

“Bu- Bucky” You whisper as best you can in broken breathes, he doesn’t know he’s doing it. He never does, his nightmares are vivid and so real to him and he can’t control his physical reactions, tears are rolling down your face as you move your hand to grip his metal wrist and try loosen his grip, you don’t want it to have to come to violence but the fear you might die and the fear he’d spend the rest of his life feeling guilty for something he couldn’t control- you start kicking him, kicking and hitting. Wake up, wake up you think to yourself

‘No. Stop. Please. Dont put me back in the chair, dont wipe my mind again’ Bucky thinks to himself in a panic as Hyrda agents push him back, how did they find him? how was he tricked into being taken again and now his memory wiped of everything he loves- his memories of you- ‘No.’ The thought of losing you is enough to make him push through and use all his strength, he takes his metal hand and wraps it around the nearest agents neck, it call kicks off into a frenzy then but he fights through it, he watches as the life drains out of the agents face.

“Bu- bucky?” What? No they don’t- they call him soldat- who’s speaking, who’s kicking him? this man he’s strangling sounds like a woman? odd. what’s happening?

He’s in a room, it’s dark. He’s on something soft, a mattress? They don’t give out those in Hydra so he can’t be back with them, who’s underneath him?

“You’re okay” Strangled sobs, you don’t know how much longer you can hold on. “Bucky” You all but desperately whine, that’s when he really wakes up.

Bucky shoots back quickly sitting on his knees as you take in deep breathes of oxygen and rub at your aching throat, he’s bewildered, did he? He hurt you. He hurt his doll.. He jumps off of the bed and backs away, he’s shaking, sweating, he’s starting to violently sob as reality comes crashing down. He almost killed you.

You finally get enough air in your lungs to notice Bucky is gone, you sit up and your heart breaks as you see him sitting against the wall on the other side of the room, looking at his metal hand like it’s a weapon, like he’s sickened by the sight of it. Getting up slowly you approach him and crouch in front of him, at the approach of your hand he flinches.

“No” That one word holding so much pain.

“Get away from me, I- I don’t wanna hurt you anymore Doll” He’s not looking at you, he can’t. If he sees the state of your neck, the bruises he’s left-

“Bucky” You whisper quietly as he shakes his head again, it’s hard for him to comeback down from nightmares but you don’t know what to do in this particular situation, he’s never hurt you because of them before, not this bad.

“It’s not your fault” You reassure him, not expecting an answer but you hope to get through to him, that the reassurance and love you show him right now will help him see he’s not the man in his nightmares.

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me” You say as you sit down across him him still giving him space as he holds his head in his hands and cries.

“I’m okay” You don’t care how long you have to sit here, as long as Bucky needs you’re gonna be there for him.

You sit in silence for a few minutes and just watch him as he takes some deep breathes, a technique he learnt in therapy, you get up and grab him some water leaving it by him for him to take in his own time, he does eventually and takes small sips.

A record is playing softly in the background he notices, one of his favourites. He senses your presence, he knows you’re there but he doesn’t understand why. He almost killed you, why aren’t you running away from him?

“I-i’m dangerous, you should get away from me-” He wont meet your eyes.

“I trust you, Bucky.” You don’t know what else you can say to reassure him, he just needs time to come down from this.

“How?” He looks at you now, grimacing as he sees the bruises on your neck. “How can you trust me, look what I did.” He’s so ashamed.

“You didn’t mean to. You were having a nightmare, we can work this out, we can talk to some doctors and see how to get your physical reactions to nightmares under control Buck. If you think i’m leaving because of this you’re wrong. I’m fine, you came out of it and i’m okay” Tears build up behind your eyes but Bucky is so fragile and vulnerable right now you’re trying to be strong for him.

He stares at you for a few seconds, his eyes wet with tears and his face one of shock horror, you can’t hold it back anymore you start to tear up.

“I’m so sorry you have to go through this, I wish I could take it all away, I really wish I could.” You reach your hand out in hopes he’ll let you have that little bit of contact and he does, he takes your hand albeit cautiously and at the contact you start to cry harder.

“You don’t deserve any of it, Buck. You never did. You’re the best man i’ve ever met and your heart is so pure. It makes me so mad to think about what you’ve been through and how it will stick with you for the rest of your life. It’s fucked up and I wish- I wish I could- I want to kill everyone who has ever been bad to you or used you.” The frustration of having to watch Bucky suffer the severe PTSD that he does hurts your heart, it causes your chest to actually ache because he is so sweet, so gentle.

“Don’t cry” Bucky says in response as his heart is being ripped out of his chest at the sight of you so upset. “There’s no need to cry” Despite everything he’s been through seeing you even just the tiniest bit upset hurts him more than anything ever could, so it’s for that reason that he looks past the fear he’s holding and leans forward to pull you into his chest.

You instantly curl up, this is so grounding for Bucky, feeling your heartbeat against his, your skin on his skin, it’s so intimate for him in times like these where he’s taken back to times when he never received simple love like touch, now more than ever he cherishes it.

“Buck-“ You croak out as you kiss his face all over, trying to show just how much you love him. He shushes you and rocks with you, his head clearing and eyes drying up. Your presence alone does more than therapy ever can.

So you both sit there for awhile, the only sounds to be heard is the both of you breathing. You stroke comforting hands up and down Buckys back and through his hair, he relaxes into your touch, into the moment, present. No longer stuck in his nightmare he’s now in a dream, being with you is a dream.

After awhile you speak up “Do you want to go back to bed? Or we can go into the living room and watch a movie or a tv show? Whatever you wanna do” You would do anything for him to be okay, you would take his trauma and deal with it yourself if you could if you knew just for a second that he would finally be at peace in his own mind.

He thinks for a second, contemplating.

“The beds kind of- it’s- too fresh in my mind you know? You can go back to bed baby i’ll go to the cou-“

“No” You cut him off “I’m with you, i’m not leaving your side.” He smiles because he’s grateful for you, with that he stands up, you still clinging to him like a koala and moves the both of you to the couch laying down with you on top of him.

“What do you wanna watch?” He asks.

“Anything you want, whatever is gonna make you feel better” Your hands are in his hair again.

He puts on a lighthearted sitcom that makes the both of you laugh as he strokes his hands up and down your back soothing not just you but himself, the contact keeping him in the moment. That’s how the both of you spend the next hour or so before you hear Bucky snoring lightly, finally sleeping nightmare free and you join him, ready to comfort him should he be woken up again.

—

a/n i started writing this a few weeks ago and then i got busy and then i fixated on something else but anyways i finished it! kind of hate it now tho but i haven’t posted in awhile,

taglist- @ktgsoul @orihimi-19 @mostlymarvelgirl (let me know if you wanna be added to a permanent bucky taglist)

divider by @/cafekitsune

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mrs-bucky-barnes106 · 4 months

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b.b. headcanons (pt. 3) <3

part 1. part 2. part 4.

bucky barnes who needs to spend at least twenty minutes kissing your face and every part of your body when you come home from work. bucky barnes who still gets butterflies when you smile at him. bucky barnes who is proud of himself for winning tickle fights with you. bucky barnes who gives you his leather jacket when you're cold. bucky barnes who is a cat person but forces alpine to make friends with your dog when you move in. bucky barnes who spends his entire friday night intricately planning out your date for saturday. bucky barnes who holds your hand during scary movies. and romantic movies. bucky barnes who looks before crossing the street (and you know he has to be holding your hand). bucky barnes who talks to your friends to learn more about you because he just needs to know. bucky barnes who lies on top of you with his head resting on your chest, so he can be your human heated blanket when you feel anxious <3

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eternalslover · 9 months

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Where are all my Shang Chi lovers like come on

LIKE LOOK AT HIM, HE IS SO POOKIE BEAR BBG, AM I THE ONLY ONE THAT LIKES HIM!?

I NEED MORE SHANG CHI LOVERS, WRITERS, REBLOGGERS

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neonovember · 2 years

Note

Loved loved loved the steve headcanon. If you’re in the mood, I would an expansion on the “steve is the type of man to never let you go to bed angry, even if you’ve both had a fight and he end up on the coach” because I absolutely agreed and I especially enjoyed reading that! Thank you for sharing this husband!Steve HC.

oh yes most definitely! His mind wouldn't rest until he knows you're at peace. Ask and you shall receive (i must say I did get quite carried away). I wrote this at 1 am so be aware of spelling :)

The Steve headcanon

My soul cannot sleep without you

The rumble of the car engine comes to a stop as Steve pulls into the garage of your shared home, the living room light is still on and if you weren't already irritated, you'd mentally smack yourself for being so forgetful. Bills weren't cheap, even on an avenger's salary.

Collecting the ends of your dress you shoulder your way through the car door, slamming it with an oomf for good measure. Steve, of course, shuts his door gently, and it leaves you even more annoyed with him.

Why is he not angry?

You don't dare look behind you as Steve begins to jog towards you, you fear the confusion that has been plastered on his face for the last 20 minutes would make you explode.

You're about to open the door until you remember, he has the keys, Steve is already one step ahead of you, fingers brushing past your elbow as he twists the golden metal into the door nob. You can feel his stare burning into the side of your face but you will yourself not to look his way, to see that look on his face that would have you conceding.

The smell of peppercorn and maple engulfs your senses as you enter your hallway, the soft air of familiarity fails to calm your tense shoulders however, as you pass the framed pictures of you and Steve over the years without so much as a glance.

Reaching your kitchen you notice the bouquet of orchids Steve had bought you earlier today left on the counter, in the rush to get to the compound's charity ball on time you had forgotten to find them a vase.

What flowers would she like?

You search through the kitchen cabinets before you grasp the clear glass, shufflingly through appliances and setting it on the granite counter. You unwrap the orchids, cutting the stems down to fit into the glass vase and filling them generously with water. Steve looks at you incredulously, arms folded as his eyes follow your movements.

"Are you going to say something?" Steve says, his melodic voice travelling through the house, bouncing off the glass vase yet failing to penetrate you.

You begin to clean the stems and spilt water from the counter, ignoring Steve’s attempt at conversation. Did he seriously not realise the brunette practically hanging onto his every word?

Steves's hand grasp your own, stopping you from wiping down the rest of the kitchen, he lifts your chin but your eyes remain downcast, fiddling with the string of the washcloth.

"Can you at least look at me?" Steve says, scanning your face that remained emotionless. His fingers glide across your arms to rest on your cheeks, and the feeling of his hands on you, after she'd touched them has you ripping them off of you. Scoffing, you throw the washcloth into the sink, before turning towards Steve.

"I don't understand, why are you upset? Did I do something?" Steve furrows his brows, his hands gripping his pants as if he's stopping himself from reaching for you.

You scoff at that, "You can't be serious Steve, you are one of the smartest people I know and you can't notice something happening right in front of you?"

He shakes his head, eyes squeezing as he opens them, you notice him scanning over the events prior, but it comes up empty and it has Steve looking more confused than before.

“What's her name, huh Steve? At least tell me her name” You whisper, arms folded as the shimmers of the dress begin to irritate you.

“What? Who?” Steve replies, stepping closer to you

“Who? The brunette who was hanging off of you the entire night Steven” You groan, you hated facing your insecurities, much less voicing them.

There is a momentary pause in Steve as his mind backtracks to the evening, sifting through the hundreds of faces he’d seen tonight, he finally realises who you're talking about.

Tony’s accountant

“Marianna?” Steve scoffs

“Yes, Marianna” You spit her name like poison, but you can’t seem to get her face out of your mind, she’s taken homage next to the laundry you hadn't gotten the time to do. The way her pantsuit fitted her elegantly, sophisticated and modern, she was the woman of the future. And you were just, well, you.

She could pull off a red lip, something that never quite looked good on you, and the very way she spoke told you she said very few words that didn't ilicitate constant adoration. She didn't need to fill the space with empty jargon, every word had meaning.

The constant comparison had followed you the entire evening, and the past insecurities that you had thought you'd overcome seemed to weigh you down like an anchor, pulling you into the deprecation you knew all too well.

It was fine, you’d get over it until she began to talk to Steve, your husband. you didn't miss the look on her face as they conversed, utter, pure amazement. You knew it because you wore it every day, Steve had a way with people, it's what attracted you to him in the first place.

You felt out of place as they spoke about diplomacy and business, and at that moment you had wished you actually listened when Tony pulled you into one of the many long rants you'd gotten used to.

She wasn't even mean to you as if the playground tactics were beneath her, but it didn't take her calling you a bitch to know the animosity that radiated from her every time Steve had tried to pull you into their conversation. You knew where you weren't wanted and you weren't about to make a fool of yourself. So you left them to it as you sat next to Natasha, who offered you a much-needed drink.

She had noticed your annoyance at Marianna the second she came over, as she always did, and for a second, you wish Steve would too. He was too pure too good, to take notice of the way Marianna got closer and closer to him or the way she bit her lip and laughed a little too hard at one of his lame jokes. The poor man thought she was being friendly, he was oblivious to her true motives.

Natasha held her grin behind an empty champagne glass, snickering when Marianna threw her head back for good measure. You had vented to her there, and she reminded you of the man Steve was. How he was absolutely enamoured by you and you only, how you had him wrapped around your finger so tight he wouldn't even think about looking at another woman that way. It was all things you knew deep down, but that didn't stop your brain from imagining the worst, that he was deep in an affair with his co-worker, and you were the dumb clueless wife who waited for him at home.

You wouldn't let that happen again, not after all those years of betrayal from an ex, you wouldn't let yourself be made a fool. Pride had a way of getting in between reality, and you let it stew you in anger until you were mad at Steve instead of her.

Steve shakes his head, moving closer to you,

“She's just Tony’s accountant, we chatted for a few, that's all doll” Steve replied, carding a hand through his blonde locks. Reasoning, however, doesn't seem to be on your mind tonight as you remember all the lies you've been told starting with she.

She’s just a friend, she’s just an assistant, she’s just...

“Well, she seemed to have taken your attention for the whole night, while I was left drinking champagne of all fucking things with Natasha. She was meant to go find her date for that night, but instead, she was with me” You replied looking towards him in anger.

“Well, I tried to include you in the conversation, but every time I asked for your opinion your mind seemed as if it was a thousand miles away!” Steve replied swiftly hands gesturing around.

“Yeah, because she was laughing every single goddamn time I opened my mouth, god Steve, can't you see what she’s doing?” You replied even faster, swallowing down the brick that began to form in your throat.

“What, what is she doing, I thought I was having a conversation with a colleague, but you seem to know better” Steve quipped, his jaw tensing and his shoulders seized.

“She wants you, and you’re either too blind to see it or already fucking know it” You replied, muttering under your breath.

Steve scoffs, shaking his head, eyes scanning your face as he remains silent.

“Is your silence meant to mean I was right?” You yell, tears beginning to gather on your waterline and you have to pinch yourself to get force them to remain there.

Steve’s eyes never leave your face, the cerulean orbs darting left and right, and up and down as if trying to understand your benevolence. His arm twitches as if he wants to gather you into his embrace and forget this entire evening.

“How can you say that” Steve replies, after a short while, “I was courteous, polite for god's sake, you know I would never do that to you” Steve moves until his hands grasp your own. They’re warm to the touch like he always is, and they begin to soothe the coldness that has begun to take over your body.

It doesn't help though, instead, it reminds you of the times you've been told that your insecurities were imaginary, that the unfaithfulness in your relationship wasn't real. That you, instead were harbouring a secret, the anger you felt then turned to guilt at your own self for even accusing him of cheating. If you were told enough times that your reality wasn't yours, you’d start to believe it.

“Yeah well, the only person I can ever trust is myself” You whisper, spitting the words out and unlatching yourself from Steve's grasp. Steve looks down at you in shock, betrayal and hurt falling over his features, whilst yours turn to stone.

He closes his eyes before opening them again, nodding as if he accepted your anger.

“Fine, I’m taking the couch,” Steve scoffs, ripping off his tie and placing it on the counter, before walking into the living room the loud stomp of his shoes vibrating through the quiet house.

You turn to the discarded tie, grasping it into your palm, the texture of the material felt velvet against your fingers. It was a plain tie, one you'd find anywhere, but it was the first tie you'd ever gotten him. You'd gifted him many over the years, all of them more expensive and chic than this one but he'd told you you'd have to pry it out of his cold dead hands before he would give it up.

It was his lucky tie because you were his lucky girl.

Where you still now?

The satin pillow dampened with your tears, you hadn't waited to even close the door before you were muffling a sob that broke out of your throat. Since then, the tears never ceased, you had to shove your face into the covers to make sure Steve wouldn't hear you.

Sleep was fruitless, you had tried everything, but you lay there, like clothes on a washing line, wrung out and left to dry. Your mind wouldn't let the image leave, her fingers grabbing his bicep as she laughed, the way he grinned as his humour got praised.

Was that it, had she given him more attention? More than you?

A billion reasons clamoured your mind as you pushed your fingertips to your eyelids, wishing that you hadn't even gone to the charity ball at all, save the humiliation just for your mind only.

Deep down you knew, you knew that this was all the insecurities of your past coming forth from their hiding places. Steve was the best person in your entire life, he would never, his stupidly good heart wouldn't allow it. But that was just it, he was too kind and nice and good that people like Marianna were able to sink their claws and have their way with him however they wanted.

He thought they were being friendly, but they knew they weren't.

Hours seem to pass before you find the room illuminated with the light of your phone in your palm, your chest feels tight and uncomfortable and you don't know how much more of this you could take.

Tapping onto the folder named “him”, you are met with hundreds of photos of you and Steve throughout the years, starting from the very few dates you had before he claimed you as his, till the wedding night when you both had stayed up to take out the millions of pins in your intricate hair.

In all of them, every single one, Steve displays the same adored, content look of utter satisfaction and love, his eyes sparkled with it, like the sun glittering against the gentle waves and folds of the sea. An endless pool of longing that seemed to have depth only for you, to crash and fight and turn inside and out for you.

Your relationship was never easy, but Steve has always, always been the anchor that brought you back, he never gave up, even when you pushed him away and left him in the dark. Even when the fear of loss and hurt caused you to scream things you didn't mean and do things you shouldn’t have.

You flick across to a photo of Steve looking towards you, a soft grin lighting up his face as you held Clint’s newborn, you were cuddled up on a seat, your knees tucked into you as you were sucked into the guilty pleasure of red fat cheeks and baby fever.

Sam had captured it without Steve looking, sending it to you a couple of days ago with the words ‘Someone wants to be a daddy’. You’d laughed it off but each day you'd come back to that picture. Back to the moment when Steve looked like he had never loved something harder than you, as if it was his first time ever really feeling it.

He loves you, you know? I knew it the day he met you, he has this look on his face, where his eyes get all glazed over and his fingers are reaching for you. It’s like he can’t breathe until he can hold you, like his body will break in two and his heart will stop.

Natasha had told you that one night on the terrace unprovoked, with a beer in her hand and the moonlight falling over the both of you. She had been there from the start, had found you when you were still a shell of a person, back then you didn't even know what love was. You fear if it wasn't for her you and Steve wouldn't have ever met.

“Steve would never do that”

The sounds of her voice those hours ago ring in your head. It was true, your entire time with Steve told you but what thing, he was not your ex. He was kind, and soft and held you like you were glass and he'd crush you. And then suddenly, as if a switch had been turned in your mind, the light of a dark place turning on you realise how utter fucking foolish you had been.

Steve’s faith in you never faltered, even when it should have he never felt a reason to distrust you, it was foreign, it felt strange to have someone utterly and fully hand their trust and soul to you. And what had you given him in return? Accusations and anger.

Did he think now, that you did not trust him? That he had failed to show you how you should be loved? How he would never hurt you?

Those men from your past would never amount to Steve, and suddenly you felt you would die right in this room if you didn’t move. If you tell Steve he was enough and that you believed him and that the vows he uttered held true. Every hair on your body itched with this need until the covers were thrown across from your body and your phone was discarded on the bed.

You swung open the door, the cold hair hitting your face and you stumbled through the dark, you run down the hardwood stairs, the haunting reality of your actions following you, you had been so so foolish.

Steve is there, his frantic motions walking towards the bedroom freeze as he notices you. His shirt is crumpled and unbuttoned, and his golden hair is ruffled, the strands falling over his face as if he's run his fingers through it too many times.

A look of desperation and longing paint his features as he watched you, hands shaking at his sides as he sinks his canines into his reddend lip. You wanted nothing but to hold him now, and the thought bring you to tears, blurring your vision until you miss a step, your heart dropping into your stomach as you brace yourself, waiting to meet the cold hard ground of the kitchen floor.

It never comes, instead, heated, carded muscle wraps around you, and you the smell of Steve, of earth and pine cones has you crying into his shoulder.

He came to you, even when you had screamed at him to leave,

He came to you.

Fresh tears slide down your cheek and you grip Steve, whose fingers softly rub your back, hands tightening around your waist.

“M’ sorry, so sorry Steve, please” You hiccup, covering your face into his shoulder.

“Ssh, my sweet girl, I know” Steve whispers, never seizing his gentle caress. His hands lift your face from his neck, thumb gathering the tears at your waterline. “I know, it’s okay, it’s okay, just breathe for me, hm?

“In and out, can you do that for me?” Steve breathes out, eyes straining as he watches your shallow breaths ease into semi-normal respiration.

Without a word, Steve collects you in his arms and walks through the house until he enters the bedroom, shutting the door with his foot, eyes never leaving your face as he gently places you onto the now cold bedsheets.

You shudder, reaching for him as he slides in, arms wrap around your sides as he continues his light motions on your back, his fingers come to move your hair behind your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your neck.

You turn around swiftly, hands reaching to cup his face before you’re met with his reddened eyes, it's your turn now to brush away the tears before pressing your lips to his,

‘I should never have, Stevie, you, I-, you would never” You whisper against him his chest, the soft rise and fall lulling you into a state of haze and exhaustion. He presses his forehead to yours

“I just want to hold you now, god, I don't know what I will do if I don’t hold you” Steve replies muttering the words painfully. You wrap your arms around him, pressing yourself into his stomach as his biceps surround you. The sound of Steve's heartbeat, the rhythmic badum badum badum, engulfs you with a sense of tranquillity you hadn’t realised you couldn’t live without.

Steve, your sweet boy, was the one thing you couldn’t live without, without Steve, next to you, holding you between his arms, you don't think you would ever quite find sleep. Not anymore, not after him.

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jayden-killer · 5 months

Text

TVA LOKI AS YOUR BF PT.2

thank you so much for the support on the previous part of my Loki bf headcanons!! I didn't expect at all to be that liked. Here is the second part of my headcanons.

wanings: it may be a little sad :((

Be certain he will travel the multiverse if something happened to you. He doesn't want another close person of his to be hurt, or even worst, dead. He's had enough of it.

He's a decent cook! Since Mobius has kids, he'll probably teach Loki how to cook, so he can surprise you with great homemade waffles!

Spoiler: he cooked them very well, but he almost burnt the kitchen...

Are you cold? No problem. As the gentleman he is, he'll place his brown coat on your shoulders. "Better, little one?" *smiles*

He will probably break some TVA rules and take you out on dates in different realities. Your most recent one was in a 80's disco, situated in New York.

Loki gives the most reassuring hugs someone could ask for. Marvel probably forgot he is a Frost Giant, so his body is technically cold; but, to you, they're the warmest hugs in the world. His arms will cling you to his chest, nuzzling his nose into your hair. Leaving little kisses all over your scalp.

Both of you share emerald green rings that have in the inner part of them an engraved phrase: "Sun is shining on us for the enternity".

After he made the decision to sacrifice himself and become the God of Stories, he had to leave you. Not because he wanted it, he had to. It's different. Don't worry. He's watching over you, in every universe, making sure you are living the life you deserve. Leaving you was the hardest decision he has made in his life.

Yet, he'll always cherish those heartful moments in his heart.

#marvel x reader #marvel imagine #loki x reader #loki x you #loki series #loki laufesyon x reader #loki odinson #loki season 2 #loki headcanons #fluff #sfw #hints of angst #marvel one shot #marvel headcanons #loki odinson x reader #loki x y/n

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blue-sadie · 6 months

Text

Broken Words

Moon System x Reader

How they apologize after fights

Steven Grant

You normally never had a argument or anything as bad as this, you guys had disagreements but you always talked it out but marc and jake have gotten on his nerves and he took it out on you, he grimaced as he thought back to the words he said to you and the look of hurt that was plastered on your face.

You were ignoring him and he hated it with a passion he'll try everything to get you to talk to him, he made you tea but all you said was 'thanks' you wouldn't come to bed you'd rather sleep in the couch and he couldn't fall asleep without you so he'd lay awake staring up at the ceiling.

"My love are you awake" he asked as he slowly raised himself off the bed 'mh" he heard you hum and slowly walked to the couch and took a seat on the ground beside you, you were angry with him but it didn't stop you from caring, "I'm sorry for the things I said.... I didn't mean any of it"

He breathing quickened as he tried to form words to help fix the mess he created, he flinched slightly as he felt your hand caress his cheek he leaned into it and took a deep breath before continuing "marc and jake have been at eachothers throats lately and they just won't shut up and I'm sorry that I took it out on you" he would grab your hand and hold it tightly and wait for you to speak "I accept your apology".

Marc Spector

He'd leave the flat to let himself cool off and give you space, his time away from the flat grew 30 minutes to an hour to 2, his guilt grew he would mutter to himself and didn't even look at the time intill it was 2 am he would curse at himself and slowly make his way home knowing that you would be asleep.

But you weren't, he opened the door to see you sitting on the couch staring at him with tears rolling down your face it made him want the ground to open up and swallow him whole, he'll take off his jacket and shoes while still maintaining eye contact with you and slowly make his way to sit beside you, he would nervously grab your hand and hold it between both of his while he two started to cry.

His body will shake with sadness as he stared into your eyes the flashes of the fight appearing in his mind, he clasped the couch cushion tightly as he tried to steady himself "forgive me" he would murmur quietly over and over he would get lost in his mind and was only brought back as you layed a gentle hand on his.

"I'm sorry baby, I'm sorry for everything I've done to you, I make you worry everyday day and I see that, I don't deserve you I don't deserve anything you give to me" he tears became more frequent as he spoke "I am trying to become the man you deserve, I am trying so fucking hard and it's scary I-I I'm trying ok and I'm sorry for all the shit I've done" you'd carefully pulled him to you letting him cry it out into your chest as you rub his back in comfort "I forgive you".

Jake Lockley

He would completely shut down and let one of the others front and let them console you, he wouldn't come out for weeks, marc and steven would try to get him to front and when they did he would just leave not saying a thing to you, when he came back you would be sleeping on the couch facing away from the door.

He would walk over to you, gently pick you up making sure he wouldn't wake you and carry you to the bed covering you with the duvet and blankets, he would lean down and lay a gentle kiss on your forehead before going to sleep on the couch himself.

He would wake up to you handing him a cup of coffee and he would try to get steven or marc to come out but they wouldn't saying that he need to fix this "trying to run away" you would smile trying to lighten the mood he would give a light hum and take the coffee out of your hand placing it on the coffee table.

"I'm sorry mi amor" he whispered and softly patted the space beside him which you hesitantly took "I've just been under a lot of stress" he would be to nervous to meet your gaze the guilt was eating him alive "I already had to protect marc and steven I think the thought of not being able to protect you as was getting to me" you grabbed his face between your hands and gently caressed his cheeks "it's ok I forgive you".

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rassvetsky · 1 year

Note

i was wondering if u can come up with ‘a trust issue who needs reassurance all the time’ reader and ‘i dont know how to communicate my feelings’ bucky. basically a miscommunication trope.

i will accept however storyline and ending you make because i love you and i love ur writing💕❤️❤️

hi babe!! i really really hope i did your wonderful request at least some justice because i got too carried away-- i hope you like it! thank you for existing ♡

Out Of Mind

bucky barnes x reader

"Falling in love with you terrified Bucky, enough to push you away. He was sure that it's better this way. But merely a week later, when you disappear without a trace, Bucky realized that he couldn't handle being without you."

[5.2k] | angst with a happy ending, miscommunication, arguing, bucky being an asshole at first but he has his reasons, natasha being protective, sassy tony, canon level violence, fighting, reader getting minor injuries, clint is the loml, bucky is an idiot in love my dudes, they're so cute god help me

reblog and/or like for a kiss, feedback much appreciated! not proofread.

Bucky used to be a simple man, Steve had told you long ago. After all those years of torture, he developed… Complexity.

And you couldn't agree more.

He was a tender lover to begin with, the one to always make sure that you were alright, the one to put your wellbeing above his. He wasn't good with words- wasn't the most expressive man out there, but you understood him. You understood why he never included cards in the flowers he sent to you, or sometimes didn't say anything back to your love declarations other than a bashful smile; you understood that for him, these things worked in different ways now.

And that's why he loved you so much. That's why he was terrified.

Because the deeper he fell for you, the more intense his feelings got. The harder his separation anxiety hit, the more mushed his brain became.

And in any other scenario, that would be lovely. Those butterflies that one would feel in their stomach, or the sweet little dumbification that came hand to hand with love. In another life, he'd bask in the feeling. He'd see the world around him under a different light, a light that you cast on his life.

But in this life? It was nothing but dangerous. Nothing but absolutely horrendous.

Because he was supposed to focus. He was supposed to be alert. His fight or flight response had to be on at all times and no matter what, he was supposed to prioritize his life to save the others.

He couldn't do that when you were involved, not anymore. The paranoia got too much- he was terrified of seeing you get hurt, of losing you in any way. That fear brought out the worst in him, causing fights to break out whenever you willingly got yourself in trouble, distracting him, making you drift apart further.

You didn't want that. He didn't want that. But life for you wasn't always just movie nights at the compound, breakfasts on bed, long nights of talking about the future.

He had to let the chips fall where they may.

You needed reassurance, he knew that. But suddenly, after the last mission you went on with the team including Bucky, he suddenly… Stopped doing that. That bashful grin was nowhere to be seen when you told him you loved him, when you held his hand it just didn't last as long as it usually did, he… He didn't even look at you properly. And that went on for days, each day worse than the one before, until he barely even talked to you.

And the dread you felt on your chest was unbearable.

The night-time fell quicker than any other day that one evening, as you prepared yourself a warm tea to accompany your book. Carrying the mug up to your shared room with Bucky, you slowly got under the sheets, holding the book open with one hand, mug with the other.

The plot was barely interesting to you with all the thoughts running through your mind, snatching your attention from the words, making you have to go back and reread the same paragraphs over and over. It wasn't anything new, this type of distraction, but more often than not, it was the aftermath of the latest mission plaguing your mind. Not your boyfriend being excessively restrained towards you, as if your sole existence was a problem for him.

Speaking of, maybe it was. Maybe you were too high-maintenance for him, maybe you weren't giving him enough space, maybe he was just going through something. Or maybe, he was done with you. He didn't need you anymore, now that he got rid of the vivid nightmares and dissociations-

How cruel of you to think that. How cruel of him to leave that open as a possibility.

With your tea half-drank, you set the mug back on the nightstand, pinning the bookmark between the pages before leaving it by the mug. You didn't feel like laying down- didn't think you could fall asleep with your mind on overdrive like this anyway. Getting up from where you were laid across, you slowly made your way over to the window, arms crossed on your chest as you heaved a sigh. The view was nice, moonlight illuminated enough of the surrounding trees, and if you were to squint, you could see the grass shine wetly, with a layer of dew upon them.

You couldn't help the way your shoulders tensed a bit when the door knob twisted open, hearing the heavy steps of your lover and a sigh leaving his lips. Your back was facing him still, and you didn't dare to look at him, figuring he was busy changing his clothes judging by the shuffling sound of fabric.

The slight squeak of the mattress brought a bitter grin to your lips as you spoke up. "Not even gonna talk to me?"

He was quiet for a full minute. "Sorry. I'm tired, sweetheart."

"Of me?"

"What?" he sounded surprised. "Wha- why would I be tired of you?"

"I don't know." you sighed. "You've been acting incredibly distant for the past week. Figured I was tiring you out."

Another squeak, he was on his feet now. Slowly walking towards you, he rested a hand on the small of your back, but you still didn't look at him. You wouldn't admit that to yourself but you really didn't want to know the truth.

"Don't be ridiculous," he spoke, tone quiet. "It's just that… The missions, you know how they-"

"We went through rougher missions back then," you chuckled. "On the verge of death, covered in blood. Missions that went on for months. You didn't treat me like this then."

"How am I treating you?"

"Like I'm a fucking nuisance!" you finally snapped, pushing his hand away from your body before turning towards him. Your eyes were wide with anger, chest heaving. "You're treating me like you don't even want to see me!"

"You're my girlfriend!" he was bewildered, albeit a bit guilty. "Of course I want to see you, what the fuck are you even talking about?!"

A scoff left your lips. "Fuck that! You used to treat me better when we were barely friends," you watched him look away, annoyed. "I've been trying to give you some space but you- you just won't tell me shit! You're barely talking to me, anyway! How the hell am I supposed to know what I did wrong if you won't even talk to me, Bucky?!"

Bucky felt his heart getting heavier. "Stop assuming that you did something wrong-"

"Then what else?! What else can I assume? For fuck's sake, am I supposed to assume that there's someone else, or you're just- you're just sick of me. That you don't need me anymore, is that what I'm supposed to think?" you could feel the tears building up by your waterline. "Fucking hell, it'd hurt way less if I was sure that it's all my fault! Or- even if you were- I just- just tell me what the fuck is wrong with you, please?"

"Nothing!" he was loud, suddenly. The sudden outburst had you taking a step back in instinct, and he panicked so hard for a moment that he almost took a step towards you.

He knew he shouldn't.

"Nothing, okay? Just one of those weeks. Leave it alone."

"Fine." you sighed. "Fine, I'll leave it alone. I'll leave you alone, Bucky, to figure your shit out and- please, for the love of God, don't talk to me until you do. I'm done being treated like garbage." and with a final shove to his chest, you walked out of the door.

Bucky knew that he deserved that.

Hell, he deserved a solid punch for the way he was treating you but he didn't know how else to act. He didn't know what else to do. He was so sick of worrying, being in a constant state of paranoia because of you, so sick of his heart hurting like someone reached right into his chest and severed it off whenever you got hurt.

Was he protecting himself, or you?

"Hey," Sam swiftly sat by Bucky's side with a bowl of cereal on his palms, not giving the other a chance to walk away before speaking up again. "You good? You look like… Hell, I can't sugarcoat this. You look like absolute shit."

Bucky felt like absolute shit.

"I'm fine." he muttered, eyes trained on the big TV screen in front of them. The compound had been pretty quiet for the past few weeks, with the main troublemakers scattered around the globe for a mission.

Sam saw right through his bullshit, though. "Your girl ain't talking to you?"

"None of your business."

"She looks like absolute shit too."

Bucky took a moment to process that.

"Did you guys fight?"

"Again, none of your business, Sam." heaving a sigh, Bucky slowly pushed himself up to his feet, leaving Sam sitting on the couch all alone. Natasha, who was busy making herself something to eat to get through lunch, decided to chime in after Bucky managed to take a few steps away.

"You push her away the second things get hard and then wonder why she hates you."

If looks could kill, Bucky's would murder everyone in that room under three seconds. "She doesn't hate me."

"You want her to hate you."

"Bullshit."

"Because you hate yourself. Isn't that it?"

Sam's eyes were wide when he looked at Natasha. She was the one to deliver a hard kick on the shin when one needed it, tough-loving and relentless with her words- not to hurt the other, but to give them a chance to see things from a different perspective.

When Bucky didn't say anything, Natasha decided to continue. "I don't know how you're justifying this in that 'cyborg' brain but you don't have one single right to punish her. For absolutely no reason, too."

"Natasha-"

"Shut it, Sam." she shook her head. "We get it, you don't like fights. But I never took you for a coward, James, and you're not being anything else but that with the way you're refusing to fight for her."

Nobody said anything else for a solid minute, while Natasha kept glaring at Bucky. His eyes were on the ground now, the harsh nature of Natasha's words hitting him right across the chest- and it hurt. It hurt bad, because he knew that he was hurting you on purpose. "How do I make it right?"

"In my opinion? Leave her the fuck alone-"

"No, no. Natasha, calm your horses," Sam got up from where he was seated, approaching the two with a relaxed expression to calm them both down. "Just tell her how you feel, man. Be real with her. Be completely honest- if you don't love her anymore, just say so. If that's not the case, then-"

"I love her, Sam."

A soft sigh left Sam's lips. "I know. Just talk to her. She'll understand."

Bucky shook his head in a nod. The idea of talking to you was nerve-wracking, to say the least. You hadn't talked to him in a week, despite living in the same compound. Didn't even dare to step into your shared room when he was there, instead deciding to take on a vacant room for a while and get your work done in silence.

You were afraid of continuing that argument, honestly. Because you and Bucky- you two weren't the type to argue. Problems would be solved in peace at all times, with both parties admitting to their faults. So when that dynamic changed, it freaked you out. Just like how falling in love with you freaked out Bucky.

"FRIDAY," Bucky called out. "Where's Y/N?"

An automated voice answered immediately. "I'm afraid that information is classified." Bucky tensed up quicker than he'd like to admit.

"What?" Sam muttered under his breath, gaze finding Natasha's confused one. Natasha spoke up not too long afterwards. "What do you mean by classified?"

"Mr. Stark specifically requested that I keep Mrs. Y/L/N's current location confidential."

"Fucking hell," Bucky heaved a sigh. "Have any of you seen her today?"

"Nah," with a shrug, Sam walked towards the counter to set down his bowl of cereal, suddenly not interested in the food but rather, your whereabouts. "Last I saw her… Yesterday evening, yeah. She was leaving Tony's office, didn't say anything."

"Where did she go after that?"

"Man, how would I know? I'm not keepin' tabs on your girlfriend, that's your job."

"FRIDAY, where's Tony?" Natasha ignored the two, focusing on the matter at hand. For all she knew, you weren't the one to keep secrets from the team. Even on solo missions, you would always keep your tracker on just in case.

"In his office. Shall I inform Mr. Stark of your visit?"

"Nope." lips pressed into a thin line, and a not-so-apologetic shrug. Typical Tony Stark nature. "Just because you live here doesn't mean you have to know everything."

"But she's my girlfriend."

"Just because she made that mistake doesn't mean you have to know everything, Barnes." Tony quipped. "If anyone else in this room was on her position and I were to give away your location, which she specifically made sure that I wouldn't tell, I would be murdered horrendously."

"It's not like her to do that." Natasha's tone was way softer than Bucky's, understandably. She was mad at Bucky and worried about you at the same time but still, keeping her cool was an art form and she was doing it beautifully. "We're just worried, that's all."

"You don't seem like her parents to me."

"Would you tell us if we were her parents?"

"Wilson, use your head. Of course I wouldn't." plopping down on his seat with a huff, Tony rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you'd beg to differ but I'm a very virtuous and excruciatingly handsome man, and I made a promise, so… The door is right behind you. I got a lot of stuff to do."

The sound of Bucky's palm meeting the desk separating him from Tony caused everyone's eyes to find his, including Tony. "You have to give me something."

"I don't owe you anything." Tony's words were like venom as they dripped from his tongue, his challenging gaze on Bucky's rampageous one. "But if you really, really want her to hate all of you, fine. She's on a solo mission."

"A solo mission?! You sent her on a solo mission?!" Sam was quick to grab Bucky by the arm, pulling him back a little.

"Man, calm down-"

"Last time I checked, she was perfectly capable of handling a mission and taking care of herself." Tony spoke, calm despite the furious man standing in front of him. "She wanted to go. Why the hell would I say no?"

"Bucky, he's right." Natasha pushed herself up from the wall she was leaning on. Signaling for Sam to possibly take Bucky out of the office with her eyes, she approached the desk. "I'm sure she's fine and she only did that just so you wouldn't go after her."

"Yeah," Sam continued. "Let's just- let's get you out of here. She'll be back before you know it."

Tony didn't miss the glare Bucky sent his way when he left the office with Sam.

Feeling Natasha's judgmental eyes on him, he looked up at her, leaning back on his seat comfortably. "Do you need anything?"

"What are you hiding?"

"Nothing, except for her location."

"No," Natasha shook her head. "It's obvious you didn't tell us everything. I'm not expecting you to, but I've known you for a long time, Tony. I can see it when you're leaving a crucial part out."

A sigh left Tony's lips.

"She's indeed on a solo mission. A mission that I know absolutely nothing about, and she disabled her own tracker."

"Are you sure nobody knows you're here?"

"God, Clint, what's with all the secrecy?" you weren't even sure your hushed whisper was heard by Clint, crowded streets of Hong Kong were noisy enough to usher a headache within you. You hadn't seen him in a while, with him retiring again, and God he retired a lot, but after receiving a message with 'emergency, don't tell anybody.' and coordinates, you rushed to his aid rather immediately.

You owed him a lot.

Following him to a small apartment building as he pushed the door open, you looked behind to see if anybody was following, before climbing up the stairs with him. "What's going on?"

"Extraction." he whispered. "Kind of a sensitive one. Tony didn't want anyone involved."

"I really think Laura should lock you up sometimes."

"So do I, kid."

Your time spent in his small hideout apartment was filled with intel and planning. It was supposed to be a very quiet mission, a sensitive one like he mentioned earlier- a swift infiltration to save a former SHIELD agent from where he was held prisoner, just so he could return to his research.

You didn't quite understand why Tony wouldn't want anyone to be involved and to save the agent, but you weren't going to ask. You trusted Clint, sometimes more than you did Tony, and if Clint told you that what he's doing was right, then you'd believe him.

The next day, with both of you suited up, his arrows ready and your secret knives hidden beneath layers of fabric all around your body; the quiet approach to the building went pretty smoothly. He kept telling you to keep your cool and to keep it quiet. This was a stealth op, and made sure to assure you that you were excellent at those.

Except, for all the stealth operations, your partner was Bucky. He was the one who knew exactly what you were going to do without needing you to tell him, he was the one who fought by your side, in so much sync with you that it felt like you two were one mind split to two bodies. You felt safer when he was by your side, calm enough to perform better.

You didn't tell Clint that. You didn't tell him that you felt way too insecure without Bucky by your side to perform well.

He was expecting your help, and you were going to deliver.

Except, things took a turn for the worse far too quickly. You got into the room in which the agent was kept, with Clint following from far behind to keep you safe; and saved the agent from his restraints. Before you could lead him out, though, you heard Clint telling you to stop taking your time because apparently, a swarm of people were coming your way, and he had to hide.

You helped the agent all the way down to the ground from the first floor, through the piping by the outer side of the wall and informed Clint of your current location, before spotting a few men running your way.

Pushing the agent away towards the woods where he could hide and protect himself, you pulled your gun out and managed to down at least two of the five men. You noticed one of them following the agent as the two attacked you; landing a harsh kick by one's neck before sliding out your knife and swinging it at the other's direction, but the distraction that they needed came quickly when through your in-ear, you heard Clint's voice again.

"Shit, abort. Get the hell out of there, get away from the building."

And a loud explosion right to your left followed.

Natasha was torn.

Tony's words kept replaying themselves on her head as she paced around the room, unable to decide between telling Bucky and keeping it to herself. She didn't know what she would be risking if she told him, but at the same time, you could get yourself in a much bigger situation and a supporting pair of eyes at solo missions were always required.

She couldn't bear the worry and uncertainty anymore.

Pushing the back door that led to the living room open with a loud thud, she found Bucky by the kitchen area, and Sam by the couch, watching the afternoon news. "I need to tell you guys something."

Bucky perked up at that, pulling himself away from his moping state to get back up on his feet, and walk towards the couch where Natasha approached. "She disabled her own tracker. Tony has no idea where she is, or what she's doing."

"Shit, how are we supposed to find her, then?" Sam slowly got up from where he was seated in worry. But before any of them could say anything else, a loud explosion sound snatched their attention and brought it to the screen.

"Earlier this morning, a lab explosion took place in a Hong Kong biochemistry lab, for reasons unknown. Public CCTV footage shows two unidentified individuals breaking into the building only ten minutes before the blast."

"Isn't that-"

"Damn it," Natasha whispered. "God fucking damn it, Barton."

No matter how fast the Quinjet was, Bucky felt like they couldn't get there quick enough. His heart was basically beating through his ribs, brain pumping adrenaline into every single bit of his veins as he watched the jet decrease altitude. The news didn't even provide the number of casualties, and the fact that he wasn't sure if you made it out of there alive or not was eating him alive.

The fact that he didn't get to make things right with you beforehand was outright torture.

The jet landed on a clearing by the woods, pretty close to the remote building in which the explosion took place. Bucky's strut seemed like it was made out of steel, as if nothing in this world could even attempt to stop him as he walked in front, Natasha and Sam following close behind. It had been at least twenty hours since the blast, and if you were dead, you'd be identified, right?

The news of your passing would be all over the world by now, right?

"I know where they might be hiding," Natasha spoke up, a bit breathless from having to catch up with Bucky's fast steps. "Clint has a hideout apartment, not too far from here."

"Fuck!" your loud cry was enough to land a grimace on Clint's face, as he let out soft shushes, trying his best to wrap your injuries up.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." he mumbled, taping down the bandage wrapped around your thigh before giving it a slight pat. "Just a contusion. I know it hurts but you could have it much worse."

"I know, but it still hurts, you idiot!"

"And whose fault is that? Not mine!"

Letting your head fall back on the cushion with a thud, you let out a slight groan. "How's the agent?"

"Called somebody to pick him up," he sighed, pulling himself up from the floor to sit next to your laid out figure. "I genuinely didn't know that they had explosives laid out through the building. Some sort of eradication. Must've been big, whatever they were hiding."

"Couldn't really keep it quiet, huh?"

"Unfortunately," he chuckled. "But we saved him, at least. Probably going to get an earful from Tony when he finds out… But you did a good job. Thanks for coming."

"Didn't have anything better to do," a grin made its way to your lips. "Don't even wanna go back, if I'm being honest."

A frown took over his features. "Did something happen?" and he continued, when your only response was a slight nod. "Bucky?"

"That easy to guess, huh?"

"Nothing else has an impact on you," a soft chuckle followed. "It'll be fine. You two- you shouldn't lose each other. Not over anything."

"I don't know if I can make sure of that anymore, Clint."

"Look, I'm saying this from a man's point of view," he repositioned himself on where he was seated, now completely facing you. "And I don't ever want you to think that I'm sexist or something, but, um… We're different. In a bad way- we're not… Complicated like your kind."

"My kind? Okay, now that's-"

"No, shut up, you know what I mean," he laughed. "Every single woman that I had the pleasure of meeting knew what they wanted. Maybe it was a bit rough around the edges, maybe it was just a scaffolding but there was a plan. There was an… expectation of how things are supposed to go, you know?"

A short silence followed. "And because of that scaffolding, you folks don't freak out as much as we do. And when you do, you still make sense. We don't. We freak out over the smallest inconvenience and everything goes shit because we don't know how to restructure our own plans that quickly. We take longer to adapt. Because we're a bit more primitive, does that make sense?"

You smiled at him, earnestly. "That's… vague, but it makes perfect sense. Thanks."

His hand found yours then, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry about it."

That night, Clint woke up to footsteps across the apartment. He was sleeping on the armchair by the side of the bedroom, making sure that you were safe on his bed since you had to take a pill or two to manage the pain and fall asleep quicker.

Quickly getting up to his feet, he grabbed the pistol he placed on your nightstand earlier, slowly pulling the door open- only to find Natasha, with a gun in her hand, seemingly relieved to see Clint.

Clint brought his finger up to his lips, signaling the room as to let her know that you were asleep. "What are you doing here?" he whispered.

"That was a sloppy op, don't you think?" Natasha whispered back, teasing. "Gotta warn you, Barnes will be here in a couple of minutes and he's going to be mad, Clint."

"Let him be," he sighed. "She's-"

Before he could finish his sentence, the front door got pushed open, revealing a worried and seething Bucky and an apologetic Sam following suit, shutting the door slowly after the other. "Where is she?"

"She's in the bedroom-" Clint stepped in front of the door, shutting and guarding it. "She's exhausted. Be quiet."

"Why the fuck is she with you?"

"Hey, not like I kidnapped her, alright?" Clint rolled his eyes, still speaking as quietly as he could. "I needed her help and I couldn't call anybody else. I'm sorry I kept your girlfriend away from you for literally two days, Barnes."

Bucky took a step back, heaving a deep sigh. He was angry, angry at you, angry at Clint, angry at himself… Yet he didn't know where to direct that anger. He didn't know how to calm this feeling down. "Why didn't she tell anybody? Not even Tony- what the hell did you make her do that she felt like she needed to hide from everyone?"

A scoff left Natasha. "Bucky, stop making assumptions."

"No- you know what?" Bucky was getting louder by the second, and nobody in the room had the guts to shush him down. "My girl doesn't hide anything from me, ever. I need to know what was so important that she had to turn her tracker off and you had to lead her into a building full of explosives."

"How the hell was I supposed to know that the lab would explode?!"

"You were supposed to make sure that it's-"

"Bucky?" your frowning, sleepy figure appeared by the door that everyone was too busy watching the argument to notice opening. Bucky's gaze visibly softened when he saw you, tense shoulders relaxing before Clint stepped out of the way and with a few steps, he approached you to pull you into his embrace.

You didn't hug him back at first- instead sending a confused look to the rest, to which Sam shrugged as a response. "Are you okay?"

"No, are you okay?" he asked, pulling away to get a good look at your figure. A few cuts and the bandage by your thigh was visible as you were just wearing one of Clint's old shirts and underwear. "Are you okay?" he asked again, tone more stern this time.

"I'm fine," you pushed his hands off of you. "Why the fuck were you yelling at Clint?"

"Yeah, alright, have that conversation without us," Clint sighed, pushing the two of you into the bedroom gently before offering you a small wave and shutting the door, to give you some privacy.

Bucky sighed before looking at you again, wanting so bad to just cup your cheeks and leave kisses all over your face- but he knew he fucked up, and you were mad. "I was worried about you. You left without a word, and when I heard that your tracker was off-"

"I don't owe anyone any explanation." your tone was harsh. "And I'm sorry if I thought that you wouldn't give a shit, Bucky. You made it pretty obvious that you wanted me to leave you alone."

"I never said that," he ran his fingers through his hair, trying his best to stay calm and work this out- but you were almost as stubborn as him, if not more. "I never- I care about you, alright? You're my girlfriend, and you should've told me where you were going."

You shook your head to both sides in disbelief. "You're not entitled to that."

"Y/N-"

"No, you're seriously not entitled to knowing anything about me. Not when you have the audacity to treat me like I'm nothing more than an absolute stranger, and then to not even make an effort to talk to me for a whole week."

"I freaked out, alright?!" he sighed. "I was fucking terrified because- because of you!"

"How the hell is that my fault?!"

"It's your fault! You're the one who made me fall in love with you!" he was loud, and you got cryptically quiet.

He never dropped the L-word before.

"It's your fucking fault because I can't stop thinking about you, I can't stop worrying about you, I can't stop making everything about you and it's putting everyone in danger!" you were biting back a smile now, as he kept ranting. "Including you! I can't- do you have any idea how hard it is to look at you and not just burst into tears because oh my fucking God, you're the love of my life and-"

You cut him off with a kiss to his lips, your hands cupping his face. He was shocked at first, unable to comprehend the sudden switch from arguing to kissing, but he wasn't going to complain. Wrapping his arms around your body delicately, he deepened the kiss, exhaling softly against your mouth when your fingers massaged the nape of his neck.

"You're such a fucking idiot," you whispered against his lips. "You're like, the dumbest person I've ever met. Your IQ is so low that-"

"Okay, okay. I get it." he chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm sorry. I genuinely am. I'm sorry for making you feel like I don't love you- because I do, I love you so much that it's physically painful."

"I thought you were tougher than that, Bucky."

"I'm just a coward, honey." with a shrug, he pulled you closer to his embrace. "I'm just a fucking coward, nothing more. But you know what? Seeing you so angry at me, telling me that I don't deserve to know anything about you- that hurt more. I guess I- I really can't be without you."

"I can't be without you either," you sighed. "I've been so cranky, just ask Clint."

"Oh, I'm still kicking his ass."

"No, Buck," a soft giggle left your lips. "He actually plays a grand part in me forgiving you. And he's one of my favorite people in this whole world, so, I won't hesitate to punch you if you ever yell at him again."

"In that case, I'm thanking him. And kicking his ass in my head."

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