bucky-is-a-hero-fightme

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

#this blog is literally dead #but not even the apocalypse could stop me from reblogging this gifset #damn #like ffs this makes me wanna sin

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Royals (6/8)

ROYALS MASTERLIST HERE

Pairing: Bucky/Reader

Universe: Mobsters!1940′s!AU

Word Count: 8000 approx. I’m so sorry.

Summary: Weeks after the storm settles and you and Bucky start working together, a visit to Printsessa will bring forth choices to make and past hurts to face.

Warnings: Alcohol mentions, my shitty writing, I think some mentions of physical assault and again, my rusty writing skills after being in a block for so long lol

A/N: I'm alive, surprise! Sorry it took me this long to post this chapter, I just couldn't get my writing motor running.

Hopefully I will continue cranking out updates from now on somewhat regularly. But I don't make any promises because I don't like breaking them.

Thank you so much for giving this story a chance and, if the case, for staying with me for so long lmao.

I could keep writing, but does anyone ever read these? Anyhow, hope you enjoy, sorry if it's shit I am so rusty

Taglist: (Lemme know if you wanna be removed or added, darlings!) @amandamartinez3568 @champagnejoker @lovemarvel101 @itsbuckysworld @mooniightbucky @whimsicalatbest @catvader1o1 @nickyl316h​

Once again the thick but calming atmosphere of the bar embraces you as you walk in, and the Bratva eyes following your moves do not feel as constricting, as judging, as those waiting for you in Manhattan.

The cool drink is pressed to your hand as you rest your weight on the counter, looking over the dancing couples, the laughing groups, the quiet but persistent stories taking place before your eyes.

You catch sight of Sam sitting on the other side of the bar, and he greets you with a small nod. You return it, smile curving your lips upwards but it quickly disappears when his eyes focus on a spot over your shoulder, the Bratok standing to full attention and putting you off.

What’s going on?

“Miss Y/N.” A deep voice calls behind you, and you turn to see one of Brock’s trusted men waltz to stand at your side.

Leaning back and schooling your features, you protest, “It’s Captain to you, dear.”

His laugh is dismissive when he answers, but the tremble of his fingers as he orders a drink gives him away. He is very much aware he’s out of his depth, this city not his boss’.

“I am here with a message to relay, from your-…from the Avtoritat.” The ‘slip if the tongue’ is very much intended, and either alternative -calling Brock Rumlow anything of yours or the rightful Avtoritat- is buying him tickets to end up in a ditch, but you let it slide.

He doesn’t say anything else, and instead pulls out a small velvet-covered box from his suit jacket pocket. You know perfectly well the kind of ring that is inside, but you still smile up at the Captain in front of you.

“Brock should know by now to stop pretending this is a lover’s quarrel,” You sigh, shaking your head, before looking him in the eye and asking, even if you do not care for his answer, “Do you have orders to take me home, Captain?”

“I’m afraid so, miss.”

The laugh tastes like poison when it leaves your lips, the siren song guiding your steps as you rest your drink on the counter, looking sideways at Brock’s trusted man.

“Try.” You taunt, the smile on your lips feral even as a couple of men you should have identified as soon as you walked in take a few steps closer to you.

There’s fear in his eyes, you see it, even if he pretends his boss’ influence can keep him safe. You know with absolute certainty, or used to, that Brock would execute to the last of his most loyal men for a chance at putting that ring on your finger.

Despite that, the Captain and what you assume to be his Bratok step closer, menacing, in a stupid display that still unsettles you. If Manhattan Captains cause a scene in the heart of Brooklyn…war will follow not shortly after.

“It will always be my family’s territory, the fact that you blackmailed your way into taking it is n-…” Your words and cut off when your back hits the wall, head slamming forcefully against it, prompting black spots to dance in your line of vision.

Your nails scratch at Brock’s arm as he presses into your throat, taking away your air and making panic flood you. He leans in closer, bourbon-stale breath fanning over you.

“You are loyal to me, little Siren. Aren’t you?”

The sharp thud of the ring box hitting the bar makes you flinch before you can school your features, bringing you out of the memory. And the Bratok notices, because of course he does.

“Please avoid making a scene, miss.” He drawls, as if he’s already won. A smarter man would know better, but then again, they know you through Brock’s eyes, and the brute still thinks a part of you wants to be at his side.

“I believe the correct term is ‘Captain’.” A voice you know too well interrupts, just as you feel the calming warmth of Bucky’s chest as he steps in behind you, guarding your back.

Not even your pride can let you ignore the way your body relaxes, the way you feel so much safer now than a second before, even if you were never truly afraid of the man in front of you.

The Bratok takes a step back instinctively, looking up and down at Brooklyn’s leading Captain. Even he oscillates between respect and ire. The men that accompanied him, you notice, also hesitate on whether to get closer or not.

You hide a smile behind the rim of your glass as you take a sip.

“You already delivered your message, didn’t ya’?” Bucky presses when the man remains quiet, and the underlining anger in his voice makes you realize you should probably step in.

But you want to have a little bit of fun beforehand. And if you manage to send Brock a message in the meantime…well, who can blame you?

You keep your eyes on the Bratok, daring him to react as you turn sideways into Bucky’s side, “Wait now, this gentleman here said he had orders.”

Of course that he knows you are playing him, taunting him to follow through with his boss’ orders in a territory far away from his reach. The Bratok squares his shoulders, looking back at you with a clenched jaw.

“To bring you home, miss.”

Bucky takes a step closer to the man, chest expanding on an angry breath against your back. You do not hesitate when you lean more of your weight on him though, keeping him from advancing on the Bratok without showing your hand.

Still, even as Bucky doesn’t move any closer to the Bratok, the men accompanying him see the threat, and step closer to the both of you.

Your eyes travel between the Bratok and the brutes at his side, to the ring sitting at the bar table.

You feel the residual burn of the alcohol in your throat, the beating of your heart in your ears. You feel Bucky’s hand find its place by your hip, a symbol of protection and support you know you do not deserve. Not after what happened eight years ago, not after the way you turned your back to him and so many others, not after the conditions to send information you agreed a few weeks ago to with Brock.

The conditions that apparently are no longer enough to Manhattan’s false Avtoritat, that sends his men to force your hand into declaring your loyalty to him.

Whispers of questions recent and ancient reach your ears.

“I can’t believe I’m even askin’ this,” Bucky mutters, back still to you as he runs a hand through his hair. When he turns to you, you see a confusing swirl between desperation, betrayal, and anger in his eyes. “Between him and me, doll, who’d it be?”

But you are shaking your head before he is even done speaking.

“This isn’t like that, Bucky. This is not a competition.”

His clenched jaw turns into a sneer quite quickly, though.

“Really? Then why does it feel like I’m tryin’ to convince my girl to stay with me?”

His words hit you harder than you anticipated, staggering the breath out of your lungs as you stumble to find the words you want to say.

But your silence bears more of an answer than anything, and your pride keeps you rooted in your place as he stalks to the door of your apartment.

“You made your choice, Princess. When you leave with him tomorrow-…” Your back is turned to the door, so he doesn’t see the tears trailing silently down your cheeks, but you can hear his words stumble, his breath catch. Finally, Bucky sentences, “You made your choice.”

You cannot take your eyes of the extravagant ring on the bar counter, feeling the eyes of so many people, past and present, set on you, on the choice you have to make.

A question earlier tonight, that you should have answered.

And would ya’? Betray him, I mean.

Your eyes travel up to the Bratok, and if your heart is as quick as a rabbit’s, if your hands tremble a little, you don’t think anyone could blame you.

Still, your smile is genuine when you answer,

“I am home.”

Yes, I would.

The Bratok hesitates, blinking past his stupor and looking back at you with widened eyes. If only Brock had taught him the Game, he wouldn’t have shown his Boss’ hand so easily.

They wanted to lure you back to Manhattan, hoping it would be incentive enough to start a war either by Bucky lashing out against your city or Brock claiming your betrayal of Brooklyn as enough.

That, or Rumlow truly believed you could stay with him out of anything but convenience.

The Bratok’s eyes remain on yours for a second too long, enough for your smile to start turning cold and threatening. He decides not to take the bait, nodding respectfully once before turning to leave.

Your eyes return to the ring, still on the bar table, for a few moments finding yourself stuck on the what ifs before you call out,

“You forgot something,” You say, noticing how your voice wavers a bit as the weight of what you have done settles upon you. Still, the Bratok says nothing, taking the box and pocketing it before walking out of the bar.

You can hear nothing past the beating of your own heart in your ears, but you keep your eyes trained on the back of those men’s heads until the doors close behind them, as if a part of you waits for them to strike back, to drag you to Manhattan kicking and screaming.

Made aware of Bucky’s presence still at your back when his hand squeezes your hip lightly; you turn around to face his grey-blue eyes.

“You okay, doll?”

You nod numbly in response, your mouth dry no matter how hard you swallow past the knot in your throat, and it is mostly muscle memory when you turn around in his arms, still leaning against his chest.

“He’s going to kill me.” You mumble.

“He can try.” He promises, but you shake your head, panic finally settling in.

“You don’t understand, Brock has the power to ruin me. Everything I have is in Manhattan, my contacts, my reputation,” A chocked sound leaves your lips, “Natasha was right.”

“About what?”

“She warned me I was pushing too much,” You mumble, jaw tight as you recall so many of the late-night encounters with the so called Widow. “I tried for too long to buy time, to stall him from moving into a full out war.”

“Why?”

The question is barely anything more than a whisper, his eyes intensely searching yours as a few breaths go by between his question and your answer.

“You know why.” You bite out, and you could swear something akin to regret shines behind Bucky’s grey-blue eyes.

“Y/N…” He starts, but you shake your head, angry and disappointed, as soon as the words leave your lips, taking you gaze away from his.

“But I was stupid, I was careless and I…” You stop yourself, swallowing your words. I would do it again. “I was taught better. My mother married off for the Bratva, why shouldn’t I accept that fucking ring?”

Your words are bitter, a rebellion against what you were told and shown all through your upbringing, but the meaning is not lost to either of you, for a second sending you back to tearstains on your face and a cracking voice around a sentence that so long ago sent you into a city of lies to become nothing more than Nayada, the Siren, the one forced to work in the shadows.

The mantle of the Captain falls over Bucky’s shoulders so fast a part of you doesn’t recognize the change for a moment. Shoulders straight, eyes cold again and already turning away from you, he signals for another drink that he is almost instantly served.

Downing it in one gulp, he smiles your way, but the gesture is nothing but another play in the Game.

“Already regrettin’ it, Princess?” He teases, the venom in his voice impossible to miss, and he knows it, because you both notice the distance between you being more than the step you take away from him.

Still, because you were taught to, because your pride doesn’t let you do otherwise, you hold his gaze, chin raised and eyes firmly on his own, even if the coldness in his grey-blue eyes hurts you more than you would want to admit.

Deserved, you ponder, that you have to stand in front of Brooklyn’s Captain, when so many times the Siren almost led him to the rocks. Still, you grit your teeth, and the words escape your lips before you can think twice about it.

“Don’t play the Captain with me.”

Bucky merely lifts his eyebrows, that damned mocking smile still on his lips. When he answers, he leans even closer to you, and you hate how he towers over you, you hate that you can still catch the faint scent that it’s just him, and above all else you hate how your heart quickens its pace in your chest.

He licks his lips before speaking, letting you for a second consider you may not be the only one not playing the Game, “Or what? You’ll put that ring on?”

The Game lets you put a smile of your own on your lips even if your throat feels dry and your pulse that of a teenage girl with too much hope. You force your eyes to stay on his as you return the mocking glare, “Why would you think me not going home has anything to do with you?”

A breathed laugh, and Bucky’s lips are grazing your ear, his breath with a hint of the smell of whiskey as it trails a hot path down the side of your neck, leaving goosebumps behind.

“Ya’ said it yourself, doll: you are home.”

You can hear the smile playing on his lips, and whether it is mocking or proud or something else, you do not care to know right now. Because at his words you realize how much of your hand you have shown, betraying that you never agreed to Brock’s terms because you couldn’t assure yourself of their safety, being stupidly naïve and light and agreeing to that dinner at the Barnes household almost a week ago, being so unguarded in all the meetings since then that Peggy, Steve, Bucky, Sam and you have been taking part on to get to know Brock’s true reach.

You have let go of the Siren without realizing, and it was the lack of her shield that made you make what probably was a horrible mistake: turning your back on Manhattan.

Either at your silence or the new tension in your body that leaves you as stiff as a board, Bucky takes a step back from you. Your eyes are narrowed and distant when they meet his, but you do not say a word.

“Let’s continue where there’s no audience, Captains.” Sam Wilson interrupts, a hand on your back as greeting and his voice and words reminding once again what’s expected of you. Bratva Captain, Heir to Brooklyn and Manhattan, Princess first, Y/N second.

With a deep breath, you agree, “You’re right. Brock never let me out of his sight, he definitely has people…around.”

You watch as Sam’s dark eyes scan the room quickly, before returning to yours. The method, the tenacity of a soldier shines through the civilian clothes, you think to yourself.

“You think they oughtta try somethin’?”

You shake your head, downing the rest of your drink. “No. But let’s not give them anything to report home about.”

Bucky interrupts with a side smile and that mocking shade in his grey-blue eyes you have learned to hate.

“’Fraid he’ll get jealous?” He teases, but you reply with nonchalance, refusing to give him another inch.

“Love, I let go a long time ago. Although clearly, I was the only one to.” You pointedly trace the letters on the napkin under your glass with a manicured finger. принцесса.

A small muscle jumps on his cheek, and you hold back a triumphant smile as you slide past both men and into Bucky’s office.

As you walk in, you catch Peggy hanging up the office phone, eyes wide and her red lipstick uncharacteristically smudged where she was biting her lip. With only Steve, Peggy, Sam, Bucky and you in the room, the silence that follows after the door closes and the line is dead is deafening.

“Doll?” Steve asks, reaching for her shoulder, but Peggy walks through his touch like he’s a ghost. Her eyes are on you.

“Peggy?” You try, gauging her reaction.

“That was an informant from Manhattan,” She explains, and even if her voice is even her eyes still look a little crazy, “Word is already running that you turned your back on Rumlow. With no games, this time.”

The words make something in your chest tighten both in apprehension and adrenaline, but you still bite out, “He wanted to put that damn ring on my finger, Peggy, there was-…”

She gives you no time to finish your sentence, her strong arms wrapped tightly around your back as she hugs you with what feels like the glee of forgiveness and the nostalgia of a reunion.

You return the hug without hesitation, closing your eyes.

The last of the bags is in the car, and the driver awaits your signal. For some reason, even if you feel your mother’s eyes on you, even if you know you have nothing to hold on to here anymore; you find yourself unable to say goodbye to this house, this city, just yet.

“Leaving without saying goodbye? The Firm kills for lesser offenses.” An accented voice you know well states, and when you turn around Peggy Carter stands before you, red hat and blue suit at the entrance of the manor.

“Peggy.” You breathe out, and even though it breaks your heart even more, you smile.

“A lifetime side by side deserves a proper farewell.” She promises swiftly, but years of friendship let you see the crack in her armor, the tremble in her voice, the smudge of her lipstick signaling she bit her lip too many times.

And it’s all those years, all those memories and all those secrets shared, that make you let go of the mask for a moment, that make you not hesitate as you cross the distance between you.

You wrap your arms around her tightly, trying to pretend you do not feel the wetness around your eyes, the tremble in your hands as they curl into fists.

“I’m sorry, Peggy.”

A moment of silence, and then,

“I wish things were different, Y/N.”

You pull back from the embrace, eyes wide, and face Peggy. She bears a similarly shell-shocked expression, but still a smile teases at her red lips.

The weight of what you have done settles on you like a deadweight on your chest, robbing you of air and making your pulse more frantic than ever before.

“What did I do, Peggy?”

She punches your shoulder lightly, the smile widening, “What you should have done eight years ago.”

Still, the fear will not let go of you.

“Peggy, he’s going to-…”

“We will handle it.” She promises, and something in her smile is a little too feral, but neither of you say anything.

“You have been waiting for this.” You state, lifting an eyebrow. Her expression sobers a little, and she nods once.

“We need to talk, you and I.” She promises, before stepping back and taking a hold of the papers she was scribbling on as she took the call.

“What else did your…informant tell you?” Sam asks, taking a seat in one of the sofas and with Steve following his lead.

You take a seat too, next to Sam and accept the drink he hands you silently with gratefulness. Peggy leans back on the desk, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Not much. The news are still fresh, but here in Brooklyn word of what she chose are outweighing what she left behind.”

Shit.

Even though the prospect of making Brock angry enough with the rumors of you choosing Brooklyn -or Bucky- over him terrifies you a little bit, the proud smile on both Peggy’s and Steve’s lips keep you from saying anything.

“How fast do you wanna bet this reaches your mother?” Steve teases, and you lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees.

“How fast do you wanna bet Brock throws a tantrum and tells her?” You shoot back, feeling strangely and suddenly unbothered by what the unlawful Avtoritat of Manhattan chooses to say or do. “His men probably did some digging as to why I’m meeting with you lot, and when he hears about it…”

“He probably knows already.” Bucky promises, and before the words are past his lips you are already frowning, set on edge at the possible implication of you having planned this or having told Brock any of what has been happening these past weeks.

“If you are implying what I think y-…”

He interrupts you, shaking his head, “I’m not. But he has men in the city, doll, has for years.”

“Oh, I know,” You acquiesce, before recalling with a light chuckle, “Their men stumbled upon mine a couple of times.”

Peggy clears her throat, dark eyes still running over the words scribbled over the papers in her hands, “Actually, as far as Brock’s men know, those men are working for me, not you.”

“You tricked them?”

She finally lifts her gaze from the page, sharing a glance with Bucky you do not miss, to which he answers with a shrug. She turns back to you and offers an uncharacteristically sheepish smile, “Not exactly.”

You narrow your eyes at your friend, “Exactly how many of my men are working for you, Carter?”

She laughs, but doesn’t say anything, and that is answer enough. Rolling your eyes in response, you try thinking when was the last time you felt this safe.

After a few minutes of casual conversation with Steve and Sam while Bucky and Peggy study whatever her informant from Manhattan told her, you are all interrupted by a loud sigh.

“I want a drink.” Peggy exclaims, moving naturally to sit on Steve’s lap. He pats her head comfortingly and offers her his glass, but she shakes her head, turning her eyes to you.

“Want to go to the pier? For old times’ sake?”

The smile turning your lips upwards is instantaneous, and a mirror of it appears on your best friend’s lips, her dark eyes shining in excitement.

“Are you going to tell me now you can hold your liquor, Carter?” You tease back, already standing up from the couch and grabbing your coat, although it may not be enough to hold back the biting cold of Brooklyn’s pier, considering you are still on a skirt.

“She can’t,” Steve promises, brushing off Peggy’s glare with a breathed laugh of his own, his arm going around her shoulders with easy affection. Steve’s eyes turn to the figure hunched over the desk, the nonchalance in his voice so forced that it makes something within you flinch, “You coming with, Buck?”

When Bucky lifts his head from the documents before him, his eyes do not search for Steve’s, but instead focus on you with surprising speed, the hesitation, the accusation wrapped in a question clear in his gaze.

You try offering a smile, but you don’t think it looks half as confident as you want it to. For a second you ponder if you should resent those damned eyes for the way they make you feel as excited and light and hopeful as you did so many years ago.

After a few moments, he acquiesces, “Sure, can’t leave her to be third wheelin’ with you two saps.”

“Like you two did to us.” Peggy points out, eyebrow raised and a knowing smile on her face as her words make your cheeks grow hot.

Bucky and you share a glance before he argues, “We weren’t that bad.”

“Yes, you were, pal.”

“Oh, you so bloody were.”

Peggy and Steve answer at the same time, prompting a laugh out of you. After Sam declines the offer, looking very pointedly at Bucky probably relaying a message that goes secret between the two, judging by the way the brunet flips him off and rolls his eyes; the four of you start a leisurely walk towards the pier.

Unwilling to let the previous argument go, Bucky grumbles, “I wasn’t as doll dizzy as you are, though.”

Steve just laughs, “Try selling that lie to someone else, jerk.”

“He has a point,” You defend with a smile, feeling more at east with the group since maybe before you and Bucky even started going steady. “The only reason Bucky and I spent so much time together in the first place was to get you two to smooch.”

“Way to hit where it hurts, doll.”

Hearing him joke around with you, even if you don’t deserve nor his smile or his humor in the slightest, makes warmth spread through your chest. You turn to Bucky with a smile so big your teeth hurt, and it is with a laugh quite reminding of your teenage years that you bump your shoulder with his.

“Shut up.”

__

The moon is so up high you have to crane your head all the way back to see it by the time the topic of Brock Rumlow comes up, so you count your blessings and face the music.

A small frown forms between your brows, and you cock your head to the side, explaining slowly, “I have him under control, if that’s what you’re going at, Peg.”

She crosses her arms, red lips pursed, “What I’m going at, darling, is whether or not you were going to share with us how he stopped shy of strangling you a couple of days before you came back.”

“He what!?” Steve jumps up, lifting his head from Peggy’s shoulder with a scowl and shock written in his baby-blues.

You catch your name said in a voice you could never forget, and out of the corner of your eye you seen Bucky’s left hand lift and move towards you, before stopping midway and falling back into his lap, curled into a fist.

“I’m alright.” You promise, both to her and any who thinks a brute trying to beat you into submission is all it takes to shut you up.

Peggy shakes her head obstinately, eyes alight with a fury you have not seen many times in your life. You would be lying through your teeth if you said it doesn’t terrify you.

“Why did you hide that?”

“Because it was not important, Peggy!” Her eyes widen in disbelieving rage, a part of it directed at you, and you rush to explain, “He has been on very unstable ground for a few months now, he wanted to try and intimidate me into swearing loyalty to him.”

“Did you?”

You just smile back at her, cocking your head to the side, letting her know she is fully aware of the answer. After a few seconds, Peggy blows out a breath, leaning back against Steve’s chest and looking out at the sea, gathering her thoughts.

“You could’ve. Sworn loyalty, I mean. The whole of Manhattan knows he wants his ring on your finger. You could’ve had it all.” She argues, still not looking at you. You have a feeling she’s not talking just about what happened in Manhattan so many weeks ago.

You shrug in response, “I had my reasons.”

“Which were?”

Whispers of dreams, traces of a future you could never have had as you and Bucky lay side by side, the dead of night making it easier to pretend you could be free. You hide a nostalgic smile by looking down at the label in your bottle.

“Promises I made, promises I intend to keep.”

She knows, what she’s doing, of course she does, you realize as she pushes, “To your father.”

You keep your eyes on hers, defiant, because you know you want to face the grey-blue eyes that have been searching yours since this bizarre conversation started.

“Among others.”

Conversation flows into some business topics, and you cannot help but notice how uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn Bucky grew since Peggy’s admission. After a few minutes, he breaks the silence,

“He tried to kill you.”

“He didn’t.” You argue back, mechanically.

Pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, he growls, “That’s not the point! You would still stay with that-…Ya’ know what? I’m done. Cheers.”

He downs the rest of the bottle in one gulp and stands up, walking tensely and briskly away from the small group. You cannot keep your eyes from following his figure though, even as silence stretches and his form disappears in the dark mantle of the night.

Steve stands up, always the best friend, always ready to have Bucky’s back, and you catch Peggy’s eyes as Steve shrugs on his jacket to follow Bucky down the dark street.

Peggy probably sees something in your face, and when you meet her gaze her smile is the same secret one you used to share when you helped her sneak out of your house so she could meet with Steve, or when she would pretend to know nothing when your mother asked her about what was going on between you and Bucky.

She takes a hold of Steve’s hand, and you take a second to admire with a happy smile how his focus completely shifts to her the moment she touches him, the adoration he holds for your best friend clear as day in his baby-blue eyes. She leads him away from you with whispered words, and one last glance towards you tells you she knows quite more than she lets on.

With a deep breath you gather your courage and start walking, quickly finding the man sitting alone by the pier, gaze on the ocean that now shows the same grey-blue murkiness as his eyes. You take a seat silently on the ground next to Bucky, keeping your eyes on the horizon as well, unsure what to say.

Either way, he breaks the silence first.

“You do regret it, don’t ya’.” His words are not even a question, and the bitterness in his tone is so heavily outweighed by hurt that you cannot bring yourself to be affronted by them.

You know he means refusing Brock’s offer earlier tonight, the thorn on his side ever since the confrontation in the bar earlier today. You wish you could tell him you are certain you did the right thing by your family, you wish you could be confident and stoic like your mother and stand by each and every choice you make.

“Can you blame me?” You answer instead with a sigh.

“What?”

“He may be…whatever he is, but at least I know what Brock wants out of me. I-I-…Bucky…” A frustrated breath leaves your lips, and too late you realize your hair will be a mess as you run your hands through it. “You used to tell me you didn’t care for the Bratva. Hell, I know the reason you got into working as a Bratok is because you needed help paying for Steve’s hospital bills. And now…now you want to wage war on the off chance you can take Manhattan from me?”

As the words leave your tongue you are faced for what feels like the first time with the reason you have been so angry with Bucky for so long now, and even if your voice cracks and your eyes sting you keep talking, your gaze stubbornly set on the horizon.

“I’m not tryin’ to take anything from ya’, doll.”

“What you have been doing for these last months, or even years; says otherwise, Barnes.”

Bucky sighs next to you, and only when his shoulders expand with a deep breath and brush against yours do you realize how close you are to each other.

He runs a hand through his hair, conflicted and frustrated, “I have my reasons, even if ya’ don’t believe me. Ya’ want me to trust you without you trustin’ me?”

“I trust you! I have been working with you for weeks, Bucky. If I had wanted you dead, hurt, or worse, you would be.”

You ignore the part of you that reminds of how, at least until earlier tonight, Brock was certain you were still working for him. You ignore the reminder that useless, pointless, and even false information was delivered to Manhattan with your name on the back.

He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw set tight and his left hand clenching and releasing multiple times in what looks like a nervous motion. After a few moments with only the sounds of the waves to accompany your loud thoughts, Bucky turns to you, grey-blue eyes almost soft, as soft as you have seen them since your return.

His voice is quiet, but it manages to silence the thoughts of having betrayed your cause, of still being too naïve.

“If I want to take Brooklyn is because I want it to belong to you again, Y/N.”

“Then level the playing field. Don’t play games, don’t put on masks.” You beseech, your eyes searching his with a hint of desperation, a hurt and pain you weren’t expecting. And you know you are pushing your luck, you know the right to demand equal honesty you lost a long time ago.

Any softness that could be in his eyes vanishes like sand between your fingers, and you know exactly why, already regretting the words after they leave your lips.

Bucky lets out a bitter chuckle, and a mix of anger and hurt curls at your insides.

“Like it was ever even, doll.”

He does not believe you. Not about the present, the past, or the future.

You let out a groan of frustration, angry and hurt and tired of this. You let your body fall backwards, laying down on the pier and looking up, trying to blink past the memories that try to resurface and make you soften.

The gentle murmur of the waves against the shore lull you into an almost slumber, your eyes closed but the stars still shining under your eyelids.

“Stark says we are goin’ to visit the moon soon.” You are startled awake at the rumble of Bucky’s voice in his chest, and you lift your head sluggishly from his shoulder to look at him. He offers you a sheepish smile, “Sorry, doll.”

“What are you talking about?” You mumble back, blinking awake and not bothering to resist pressing a soft kiss against his cheek when you see how adorable he looks with his eyes shining in wonder as he stares up into the stars.

“Howard Stark, I read on the ‘paper he said they will invent somethin’ to get us to the moon soon.” He explains, and you cannot help the giggle that builds up in your throat.

“You want to have another date on the science fair, don’t you?”

“If you insist, babydoll.” He teases, but the bright smile on his lips and the excited way he turns to face you tell you another story.

You kiss your own smile into his lips, and burrow back into the place where his neck meets his shoulder, closing your eyes and inhaling his scent as you let yourself be lulled to sleep again.

“Fine, but next time it’ll be Coney Island again.”

You keep your eyes on the sky and force your words out past the knot of memories clogging at your throat, “Then what am I doing here, Bucky? Why am I working with you, why do you say you want to trust me if you are not willing to believe a word I say?”

He turns sideways to face you, leaning back on his elbow so you are face to face. You try, you swear you do, not following with your eyes how the fabric of his shirt tightens around the muscles of his arm. You try, and fail.

Bucky gestures with his free hand as he accuses,

“You are the one that came back, and now you act all high and mighty expectin’ everything to go back to what it used to be-…”

“That’s not what I’m doing!”

But he shakes his head, insisting, and if his eyes show he is a little lost, a little fragile, you do not mention it.

“Yes, you are! Th-the outings with Peg, jokin’ with Stevie, getting along with my fuckin’ sister; you…you left, things cannot- just-” He groans, frustrated at himself and dropping to lay on his back as well, his eyes on the stars. You wonder if he too sees the memories of so many nights spent in this very same pier in what feels like a lifetime ago. “I don’t know what the hell ya’ are playin’ at, Princess, but I’m not gonna be stupid enough to fall for it a second time.”

“I’m not ‘playing’ at anything, Bucky. I’m trying to keep the people I care about alive and safe.”

“Too little too late, Princess. Shoulda thought about that when you left us.”

The words feel like a knife in your chest, and for a moment you feel your air lacking as if truly were embedded there, between your ribs. The girl you were before would’ve listened to her aching throat, her burning eyes; but you were taught to be the Siren first, Y/N second.

After all, that’s what Bucky sees too, isn’t it? He doesn’t trust you, he doesn’t believe a word you say; because what you are to him is the Siren. The girl that loved him died eight years ago, and he acts like it.

The thought shouldn’t hurt you like it does.

Clearing your throat, you nod firmly, standing up and keeping your jaw set tight and your hands curved into fists to keep them from shaking, “I’m going home.”

For a moment Bucky looks like he wants to say something, maybe apologize, maybe explain, maybe keep you there for a while longer. But he doesn’t, answering instead with a sigh and standing up too, “I’ll walk ya’.”

“Aren’t you afraid I will take my chance and stab you in the back?” You spit out in response, eyes narrowed, “I’ll pass, Barnes.”

But he doesn’t let you walk far, falling into s quick stride with you with no problem, with those damn long legs of his. You refuse to look at him, even if you feel his eyes on your face and his itch to say something.

With a huff, he admits, “You ain’t the only one with people you-…you want to keep safe, okay? I’ll walk ya’ home.”

___

The walk is quiet, but the silence is not as angry anymore as it is tired, hurt, yearning. There’s this wound you yourself created, and yet for so long haven’t been able to stop from bleeding.

Being back in Brooklyn made all this mistakes and old pains and memories and…and this old you come back, or at least try to, like a song you hear from a faraway radio, that gets louder and louder, harder to ignore, the closer you get.

The streets leading to your apartment and the façade of the building have never looked so cold and ominous before. You stand there in silence, looking up at the place you bought after being made Captain, the porch where you spent all those late nights whispering promises and dreams and hopes, the windows that became witnesses to the times you felt the most loved, the most worshiped, the most wanted.

When Bucky murmurs a goodbye, you cannot bring yourself to let him go.

The words are leaving your lips before you are even done turning back to face him,

“You let me go.”

His shoes as he stops in his tracks make a sound in the gravel that seems to echo through the streets.

“What?”

“You keep saying I’m the one that left, and yes, I did, but you let me.” You explain, standing your ground in the stairs even as he gets closer, even as your legs beg to walk closer to. You stand your ground, because you were taught to.

“You chose Manhattan, Y/N.” Bucky grits out, jaw set tight.

Looking up at his stormy eyes, you cannot find it in yourself to hold yourself back when you explain, “I chose what I was taught to choose! I wanted to…”

The words die at your throat though, the courage and the freedom short-lived, as the Siren’s teachings reach for your conscious mind, reminding you of how wants are not of importance when it comes to the Bratva, if how love is not of value in the Game.

Bucky doesn’t let you keep that particular thought to yourself though, walking even closer to you, so close you can feel the warmth of his body in this cold Brooklyn night.

Even if his breath is quickened, even if his eyes are dark, his voice is merely a whisper, “What? What did ya’ want?”

You shake your head, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it matters a hell of a lot, doll.”

There’s something in his expression, something both hopeful and broken, something both angry and hurt. Something that reminds you of the man you love.

So, you take a deep breath, and force the truth to leave your lips.

“I wanted to stay. I wanted you.” You breathe out, not giving your heart to dwell on Bucky’s soft gasp before you bite out, spite and hurt in equal proportions clear in your tone, “But you let me go.”

When you walk up a couple of steps to set distance between you, Bucky lets you, taking a step back himself and facing you with wide eyes.

“Let you go!? I didn’t have a choice, Y/N!”

Your eyes narrow and your voice rises to match his before you can remind yourself of what is proper, “What are you talking about? I asked you to come with me, I asked you, begged you, to join my family so we could stay together, and you said no! I deserve my answers too!”

The brunet runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it, and he turns his back to you as he paces, letting you see the tension in his muscles through the dress shirt.

“I said no because I knew I couldn’t keep you, Y/N!” He exclaims, and the pain in his voice alone could forever sentence you into silence. “Why do ya’ think I was never made Captain while your father was alive, huh? Why do ya’ think I never joined a family? Why do ya’ think I never joined yours?”

“Bucky…”

This time he walks closer, eyes set on yours, jaw set and lips tight, the face of determination, “Do ya’ really believe I wanted to see the woman I love go off to Manhattan and marry Brock fuckin’ Rumlow? No, but I had to sit back and watch it happen because it was the only choice I got.”

The pieces fall into place, the questions that have been running through your head way before the dinner at Winnie’s where you learned Bucky knew of your parents arranged marriage even before you did finally have an answer, and like a doll whose strings have been cut off, you let yourself fall to the steps underneath you, sitting numbly on the stairs.

“That’s why Father told you about his arrangement with my mother. He was counting on my marrying…who? Fucking Rumlow?”

You wonder if you should sound more hurt, more betrayed. You wonder if you shouldn’t feel like you have known of what your father was capable of, and willing to do, since before you even left Brooklyn.

Bucky sighs, but you can’t look at him, you just do your best to look ahead without letting tears flood your eyes, as the realization of what your family did to you sets in your stomach like a dead weight.

You feel his warmth next to you before you can understand he took a seat in the stairs by your side, “He was tryin’ to protect you, in his own way.”

“I kn-…” You stop yourself. You don’t want to give the answer you were taught to give, you don’t want to accept it because that’s what the Bratva is supposed to do, because that’s what the rules are. You may have been taught the rules, but you were raised to push past them. May the Queen overthrow the Game. You stand up, fists clenched tight and expression firm even if your eyes still shine a little too much, “It doesn’t matter, it…it shouldn’t matter. That’s not how things ought to be done, I cannot make a choice if I don’t know what I’m choosing.”

The man before you shrugs, still sitting in the stairs, “You did choose, though.”

It’s just then that pain lacers through you like a knife, leaving you bleeding with whispers of could have been’s and wonders of what if’s. The first sob leaves your lips before you can think of holding it back, tears overflowing your eyes and racing a burning path down your cheeks.

Bucky’s arms wrap around you and you cannot bring yourself to pretend anything anymore, hiding your face in his chest and somehow feeling the ache deepen, the wound blister and burn at the reminder of what you lost, at the warmth you missed and left behind.

“I’m sorry.” You gasp through a shaky voice, but his only answer is to bring you in closer, chin resting over your head and his hands soothing as they travel up and down your back.

Your toes lost sensation by the time you bring yourself to pull back, and you wipe your hands across messy cheeks and stare up at him.

The smile Bucky offers you is a little sad, a little encouraging and it somehow makes you all the more courageous.

“Come upstairs with me? We have a lot to talk about.”

___

After washing your face and tying back yourself in your bathroom, you walk out with a new determination in your step. This time, past the hurt, past the bleeding heart, you promise yourself to find healing.

And it starts by admitting to all wounds. So, with a deep breath, you start,

“What my father did, how he handled business and…family, I don’t want that,” Bucky doesn’t say anything, sitting in your couch, hands clasped together and forearms resting on his thighs. You try telling yourself it’s the best choice when you admit, “Just when I had gotten back to Brooklyn a month or so ago, the day I ran into Becca…I…Brock called me, he knew too many things about what had been happening. And to ‘prove’ my loyalty, he wanted information, whatever I could get you to tell me. Well, whatever the Siren could.”

If the man before you is surprised, he doesn’t show it.

His voice is gravely when he states, his question not even truly one, “And ya’ did.”

“I did, dead trails and some other useless information to keep him off my back. I wanted you to know, because…I want to start over.”

Itching with uncomfortableness, you switch from one foot to the other as the silence stretches into awkwardness. After a few moments of watching you squirm, Bucky leans back on the couch, a hint of a smile playing at his lips and hand inviting you to sit.

You do, hoping your eagerness was not so noticeable.

“Fine. Why are ya’ here in Brooklyn, doll?” He asks, and thought the question has been asked before, you fear this is the first time the answer will be truly, undoubtably honest.

“To take it back, even if it has to be from you.”

The smile now fully tugs at his lips, both a promise and a secret as his hand closes over yours. The touch startles you,

“Ya’ won’t have to.” He whispers, and although the gentle hold of his calloused hand of your own startles you, you still return the gentle squeeze when you whisper back,

“I know.”

___

Did you like it? Please tell me what you think, I'm seriously squirming because it has been so long I fear to have lost my touch when it comes to these character's voices and this story I wanna tell.

Btw, in case you caught it, in neither of those times were Bucky or the Reader character supposed to speak in past tense, it wasn't a typo ;)

Please tell me what you think!

Love, Luce.

#bucky x reader #mobster!bucky #mobster!bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mobster au

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Omg in your heartbeat was the first fic I ever read on tumblr & I loved it but couldn’t remember the name so I just spent an hour and a half scrolling backwards on my feed to find when I reblog he’s it! Gonna read it again!

Gosh, you have no idea how happy your ask made me! Damn the idea of someone liking my stories enough to go back and re-read them is just so humbling, I really don’t know what to say.

Thank you for taking the time to write this, and thank you so god darn much to take the time to give In Your Heartbeat a chance, it was the first multi-chaptered story I posted with a reader insert, and the first one on Tumblr. I got such amazing feedback from it, so much of it from you, that it’ll always have a special place in my heart, like It’s All Lies, Darling.

I am incredibly absent from my tumblr and fanfic life in general (im working on Royals and other projects for MCU, but slowly and mostly to myself for now), but your words really gave a push to keep trying and working on my stories.

Thank you so much, you wonderful human. I wish you the best, and I’ll always cherish your support and your words.

Love, Luce.

In Your Heartbeat Series

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Reblogging ‘cause timezones (read: i need validation) & because the italics didn’t stick when I posted it and it was all a confusing mess so I hope it is better now. Thank you! Lots of love!

Royals (5/8)

ROYALS MASTERLIST HERE

Pairing: Bucky/Reader

Universe: Mobsters!1940′s!AU

Word Count: 4000 approx.

Summary: The dinner in the Barnes’ household goes on, and secrets are exchanged, old pains and old joys are remembered and brought back.

Warnings: Nope, maybe some threats of bodily harm but nothing triggering, hopefully. As always, let me know if you would like something added here because I put your comfort above all else. Ty

A/N: kay, hey im back. I still love this story, but I haven’t had much motivation to write lately. I’m trying to come back to the MCU slowly but surely, and I promise I will finish this story, even if it takes me a long time.

There’s some projects I’m extremely excited about in the works rn, and I hope I can make an announcement about them soon.

Thank you so much for giving my work a chance, as always. And I hope you enjoy!

Taglist: (Lemme know if you wanna be removed or added, darlings!) @amandamartinez3568 @champagnejoker @lovemarvel101 @itsbuckysworld @mooniightbucky @whimsicalatbest @catvader1o1 @nickyl316h

Keep reading

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mobster au #mobster!bucky #mobster!bucky x reader #timezone reblog #fixing shit reblog

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Royals (5/8)

ROYALS MASTERLIST HERE

Pairing: Bucky/Reader

Universe: Mobsters!1940′s!AU

Word Count: 4000 approx.

Summary: The dinner in the Barnes’ household goes on, and secrets are exchanged, old pains and old joys are remembered and brought back.

Warnings: Nope, maybe some threats of bodily harm but nothing triggering, hopefully. As always, let me know if you would like something added here because I put your comfort above all else. Ty

A/N: kay, hey im back. I still love this story, but I haven’t had much motivation to write lately. I’m trying to come back to the MCU slowly but surely, and I promise I will finish this story, even if it takes me a long time.

There’s some projects I’m extremely excited about in the works rn, and I hope I can make an announcement about them soon.

Thank you so much for giving my work a chance, as always. And I hope you enjoy!

Taglist: (Lemme know if you wanna be removed or added, darlings!) @amandamartinez3568 @champagnejoker @lovemarvel101 @itsbuckysworld @mooniightbucky @whimsicalatbest @catvader1o1 @nickyl316h

After a few beats of silence, Bucky turns to you, and leaning his back on the railing he asks, “Why are ya’ here?”

“We already covered that, love.” You reply quickly, a small smile on your lips as you look pointedly at him.

Shaking his head, Bucky sighs and explains, “In Brooklyn, doll. Takin’ Manhattan back will not be so easy from so far away.”

Taking a deep breath and mulling over your answer, you watch as Bucky straightens up where he sits, locks his shoulders, sets his jaw. You notice too much of the Captain sitting in front of you reflected in the man you invited to your bed a few weeks ago.

A part of you wants to feel wronged, remembers arguments and conversations and pleas and promises -take your mask off when you talk to me-; but you cannot be certain if it was truly you or the Siren that tasted his lips and his skin that night, so that part of you that feels the sting of pain, of nostalgia, is quickly quietened.

So, you lift your chin and ask, “Are you planning on moving for Manhattan, Bucky?”

His eyebrows draw up, “Ya’ expect me to trust ya’ with that?” The laugh that leaves his lips is as much surprised as it is mocking, “I’m not that stupid, doll.”

You shake your head, and press on, leaning towards him, “Manhattan is aware of Brooklyn’s power now, and Brock is as well. And he grows dangerous when he gets cornered.”

“Especially now that we have ya’ here slummin’ it with us, right?” He smiles, and a small smile lifts your lips on a side-smile of your own.

“He lost an asset when I left, yes, but he also lost the certainty that I wouldn’t betray him.”

This time it is Bucky that leans closer to you, narrowing his eyes a little your way, even as his posture relaxes, as his body gets close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him in this chilly Brooklyn night.

“And would ya’? Betray him, I mean.” His grey-blue eyes move restlessly between your own, searching for an answer.

You can only look back at his inquisitive gaze for a few moments too long, fully aware what he is asking if you is whether you would let go of the Siren, of the official backing of Manhattan. It is more than Brock, more than the two of you, has always been.

“I…” You start, but the door to the backyard opens, and you both turn to watch as a smug Peggy approaches you.

“Delighted you haven’t killed each other yet. Dinner is served, you don’t want to keep Winnie waiting.”

Bucky grunts his agreement, suddenly refusing to meet your eyes as he stalks inside the house. You try ignoring Peggy’s piercing brown eyes on you as you walk towards the door, but she doesn’t make it that easy.

The snottiest and most annoying smile you have ever seen starts slowly curving Peggy’s lips upwards.

“What.” You bark back, stopping in your tracks but not turning to look at her.

“Nothing. Just would have figured sleeping together the night you called me would have gotten all that tension out of your bodies.”

“Wh-…I-…” You stop your sputtering by closing your eyes and your mouth for a few seconds. You could swear Peggy lets out a breathy laugh. Finally, you turn to her, “How?”

The British woman shrugs, but there’s a certain warmth in her eyes, one that wasn’t there before.

“Steve talks,” She brings back the know-it-all smile, “Nothing happens in New York that I don’t know about, Printsessa.”

There’s a hidden meaning behind her tease that you are just shy of asking about, when Rebecca’s head appears through one of the windows to the back porch where you are.

“My Ma says you better come eat, and that if you would be so kind, could you stay a little late, ‘cause she wants ya’ to make the Sunshine Cake.”

“Winifred Barnes asked that nicely.” Peggy asks, and a light laugh escapes your lips.

“Ya’ get the point. Will ya, though? ‘s been so long since we’ve had it.”

“You’re distracting me.” You mutter, straightening from where you were checking the oven -for the tenth time-, and pointing an accusatory finger at Bucky.

He chuckles, lifting both hands from the counter to express innocence.

“I’m not doin’ nothin’, doll.” He promises, but the smile is anything but innocent.

“You’re so full of shit, Barnes.” You sigh, turning back to check on the cake, without opening the oven.

“The cake’s fine, doll. Not going anywhere,” He says, the smile still present in his voice. You turn back to face him, and he opens his arms, inviting you to his lap as he sits on a chair near you, “C’mere.”

Rolling your eyes, you walk to him and straddle him, watching his smiling face with a dopey smile of your own as you run your fingers through his hair.

“Something you needed, Barnes?”

His hands on your back press you a little bit closer, his lips a breath’s distance from your own.

“You.”

You swift uncomfortably in your seat, begging silently for the timer to go off so you can run into the kitchen and hide.

Sitting in the dinner table with two of the youngest and most dangerous Bratva Captains, the direct heir of the British Firms, and a teenage girl whose overprotective brother probably taught her how to kill…and you are scared of the tiny woman twice your age.

Winnifred Barnes was always that kind of person.

“So, Y/N.” She starts, putting her elbows on the table and setting silver eyes on you.

“Shit,” You bite out under your breath, before lifting your head, “Yes, Mrs.-…Winnie?”

Peggy hides her laugh behind a poorly acted cough, and you kick her in the shin in retaliation.

“How’s your mother doing?” She asks finally, after a few seconds of tense silence. Something within you sighs in relief when her stance softens, her eyes lose some of the cutting edge in their glare.

“Haven’t talked to her in a while.” You answer truthfully.

“You’re leaving?” You ask, biting the inside of your cheek when you catch a glimpse of your mother’s assistant being witness to your conversation as he carries her luggage out of the room.

“For a while, do not fret,” She assures you, but you see behind her eyes the weight of the whole Family on her shoulders, the shadow of your father’s death clouding her thoughts. She turns to you when she adds, “You are the Head of the Family now, sweetheart. You do not need me.”

“I will be alone, though. Father had you, he had Uncle Jim, and the others.” You argue.

“You have-…”

You interrupt her swiftly, standing from the settee and walking to the big windows in her former apartment. Your voice is a hiss when you bite out, “If you say Brock Rumlow, mom, I-…”

“You have yourself. The only piece you cannot afford to lose is the ground under your feet, the rest are pawns.”

You swallow back your disagreement, the taste bitter as you force your mind to forget images of grey eyes and whispers of unending promises.

“Sharon told me she has been spending a lot of time with my family. She seems to be doing well.” Peggy offers, but you shrug as you reach for a sip of water.

“To be expected, considering my father and her never loved each other.”

Rebecca lets out a nervous giggle, “What?”

“Political marriage. Quite common apparently, when a Bratva woman holds too much power on her own. They send a man to put a ring on her finger and a muzzle on her mouth.” The words are mixed with poison, an angry song from a woman buried at sea, demanding retribution; as they leave your lips.

The Barnes matriarch leans back on her chair, looking at you with a new softness in her gaze, but the same distrusting edge.

You stand your ground though, not willing to back down on your choice to your mother, nor her.

“Take the deal, Y/N, don’t be foolish.” Your mother insists, and even if you can see the tension in her body, the wear of concern in her expression, you clench your jaw and shake your head.

“No.” The words are as final as they have been since Brock proposed the…arrangement. But she refuses to accept it.

“The Bratva will not let you rule alone! That is not the ways of the Game.”

Your father’s trusting eyes, his supporting words and encouraging smiles, they remind you of what your family wanted to make out of the Bratva once, of what you were taught to want, to protect, to achieve.

Even with the same confidence, your voice still falters when you state, “Then…then I’ll overthrow it.”

But your mother only sighs in response, dragging a hand over her face and speaking as if she were chastising a misbehaving child, and not a Bratva Captain, “Let go of childish fantasies, little dove. Brooklyn was never ours, and the blood of those who stayed behind will too stain those streets.”

A cold shiver runs down your spine, and you are force to bite back promises of it never happening, not while you still have breath in your lungs.

Instead, you move another piece in the Game, “Is that a threat, mom?”

“Not from me.”

For a second too long you are stunned, taken aback. But you quickly compose yourself, like she taught you. Because she taught you, maybe.

Steeling your gaze, you settle your answer, turning to Natasha and giving her the message she is expecting.

“Tell Brock I said no. And that if he wants me to stay at his side, he will desist on such foolish ideas.” Your eyes remain on your mother’s as you declare your final answer.

She presses her lips together in a sign of disappointment, but you could swear a hint of pride shines in her eyes, even as she says,

“You are making a mistake, babygirl.”

“I’m…I’m playing like my father taught me,” You promise, you remember; and you turn fully to Natasha, fixing her gaze with your own. “Tell Barton to move into Brooklyn, send the aid we talked about.”

She nods once before walking out, and you could swear the same hunger, the same anger and pain and resentment that swim in your blood since you left your home shines through the mask of the Widow before she finally walks away.

Winnie’s eyes travel to your left hand, and you spread your fingers proudly so she can see. No ring. Her silver eyes go back to your face, and something alike respect shines back in them.

“When did ya’-…” Bucky cuts himself off as every pair of eyes in the table turns to him. His grey eyes go from you to Steve, and then back to yours. This is the first time he has spoken since Winnie called you to dinner. This is also the first time he has looked you in the eye since Peggy interrupted you on that porch.

You watch his fingers drum anxiously on the table, before he clears his throat and starts again, “When did ya’…learn about that?”

“About my parents?” You confirm, and he nods. You do not want to answer with the truth, not really. But… “When Brock proposed to me, eight years ago.”

The way he leans back on his chair, straightens his back, shouldn’t remind you so much of someone regaining balance after being struck.

The regret curls at your stomach like a snake, heavy and instantaneous in the moment you see Bucky close off again, shedding the tentative truce and putting the mask of the Captain back on.

A cold smirk curves up his lips.

“Didn’t offer ya’ enough territory?”

You think you hear a quick reprimand from Winnie, and a sigh from Steve, but you are focused on the man in front of you.

He doesn’t take his eyes off yours, the grey depths challenging you to back down or play your next move in the Game, hurt back.

But you don’t.

For some reason, being in this house, being so close to the memories of who you once were, who you all were once; it keeps you more flesh and bone than cold marble.

“Didn’t offer me your safety.” You bark back, even though your voice is as low and soft as you have heard it.

Although the part of you that was taught to distrust her own shadow instinctively regrets showing your hand, and the same part of you that was trained to change masks and silence crowds fears the silence that takes over the room; the girl with loose hair from the wind and sore feet form dancing feels nothing but tranquility.

“What?” Peggy whispers, the words a dumbfounded exhale, and you finally take your eyes off Bucky’s shocked expression to focus on the girl at your side.

You hate the part of you that soars at the guarded hope in her brown eyes.

“Every deal I make is to ensure the safety of my family. Inconveniently for me, that included…includes…I-uhm…” Your confidence falters, your words die in your throat when you realize what you have revealed. You shrug and, feeling uncharacteristically uneasy with so many eyes on you, reach for your glass of water. Finding it empty, you clear your throat, and stand up from your chair, and the compulsion of being brought up as a good girl from society makes you mumble an excuse as you do so, “I need some ice, and the…uh, the cake is probably done.”

Of course, the cake is not done yet. Of course, you are going to have to go back to the dining room and be polite and stay.

And God, you don’t think your pride can take it.

Tendrils of a conversation starting again in the dining room makes the knot of embarrassment and nervousness dissipate a little, and you allow yourself a few minutes in the kitchen before you have to walk back.

You wonder if the reason Brock was so quick to drop Brooklyn as soon as an inconvenience arose has anything to do with how easily you see yourself dropping the pretense, the mask, the shield of the Siren when it comes to these streets. To these people.

As you move through the motions, seemingly remembering where every utensil is as you ready the needed ones to take out and serve the Sunshine cake; a part of you ponders how long it will be until pretending to be free comes back and bites you in the ass.

But, surprisingly enough, you don’t care.

And that thought alone gives you more freedom than a thousand titles within the Bratva could.

Turning your attention back to the kitchen around you, you notice the subtle change between the affordable utensils and sparse decorations of before, and the quality instruments, the expensive gifts littering the space. No doubt work of her son, you ponder with a small smile, reaching for a cake server.

Your fingers stop shy of reaching for it though, your eyes glued to a small portrait among a few others, hanging innocently from the wooden rail under the cupboard.

You tug on his hand, unable to contain the smile on your lips.

“C’mon, Buck, four for a quarter!” You squeal, almost bouncing on the tips of your feet as you wait for the couple inside to finish their turn.

You feel Bucky’s chest rumble in a low laugh as he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on the top of your head.

“Ya’ know the kinda money your old man has lets ya’ splurge on a few studio pictures, right doll?”

You roll your eyes at his tease, “It’s not the same.” You insist, but the conversation is cut short as the couple walks out.

The first picture in the row of four, your excited smile and messy hair as you look at the camera, Bucky’s exasperated smile as he presses a kiss on your exposed neck, but his act is betrayed when it is clear as day his eyes are as soft and fond as ever, always on you.

You are giddy with excitement as Bucky gently moves you to his lap, your legs across his as your arm instinctively wraps itself around his shoulders. You are taking in the interior of the box with a smile so big you can feel the strain in your cheeks, when you feel Bucky’s soft lips on your skin.

The flash goes off, but you blink past it, and look back at his grey-blue eyes. You breathe a small laugh as you take in his equally smug and flustered smile.

The second picture, your hand on his cheek as you seal your smiling lips with his own, your free hand messing up his hair.

The smile that turns your lips upwards now is as much pained as it is nostalgic.

The first picture was faster than you expected, but you are ready for the second one. With a gentle hand on his jaw you bring his face close to yours, and before he can say anything, you press a chaste kiss on his lips.

He breathes a laugh through his nose, but his hands still wrap around your waist, bringing you closer. As if you would ever move away.

Shaky fingers take the portrait from the wall, and the third picture mocks you with a whisper, as clear as day, of the words exchanged for the first time on that lonely booth.

“What was that for?” The brunet teases as you break apart, and for a second you cannot take your eyes away from the blurry mark of your lipstick on his own skin.

You smile, fingers moving nervously on the back of his neck, and turn your eyes to his.

“I love you, Bucky.”

You have to force your eyes to take in the last picture out of the four, fully aware of what it will show, even if it breaks what is left of your heart.

Because if you close your eyes, you can still feel the urgent press of his lips on yours, the quickened beat of his heart beneath your hand, the comfort of his arms wrapped even more tightly around you.

A throat clearing behind you brings you out of the memories so fast you feel dizzy as you turn around.

Bucky stands a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his pants as he points to the portrait in your hand with his chin.

“My…uh, my ma’ kept ‘em.” He explains, and you bring your gaze back to the pictures, although you are not really looking at them.

“Of course she did.” You mutter fondly to yourself, before putting the portrait back in its place, albeit reluctantly.

A few seconds of uncomfortable silence stretch between you when you return your eyes to his, but finally Bucky breaks the silence, reaching up and rubbing a hand on the back of his neck as he offers,

“If…if what you said back there is true, then…I owe you an apology.”

That, you weren’t expecting.

“You don’t,” You say, “I mean, it is true, but…I shouldn’t have come here.” You finish quickly, as if just realizing it.

But he is quick to correct you, almost taking a step towards you before stopping himself, “No. I…my family is glad to see you,” A small smile curves up his lips, “Becca really missed you.”

You allow yourself to relax, “She’s grown so much, I…I think I expected her to remain an eight-year-old girl forever.” You finish with a chuckle, a small smile still curving your lips upwards.

“So did I.” Bucky deadpans, and when you catch a small, almost nonexistent smile on his lips as he looks at you, you cannot help the surge of pride and giddiness in your chest even if you tried. Which you don’t.

The chirp of the timer interrupts anything you may have said next, and you rush to the oven to check the cake. It has been years since you have smelled the heavy vanilla and hints of citrus of the Sunshine Cake, too busy with the Game and, you guess, too reluctant to remember a life before becoming a chess piece in it, to make time to eat some.

Your father taught you to make it, and as you put the hot pan on a mat, you have vivid memories of a too-eager child rushing to grab it before a gentle hand stops her, presses a kiss to her hair, and lifts her on his arms to explain her about waiting.

The memory brings a nostalgic feeling to your chest, the good kind, but it also reminds you of something.

You turn to Bucky, resting your back on the counter as you take him in.

“You knew about my parents’…arrangement?” You ask, thinking for a second you will catch him off-guard, but Bucky nods, lips pressed into a line.

He answers your unspoken question quickly though, walking to you and resting next to you on the counter, arms crossed.

“Your father told me.”

Dad died before I even left Brooklyn, so…he told him when Bucky and I were still together?

Even if you fear the answer to your question, you must ask, even as your voice cracks, even as dread spreads through your body, “Why?”

His grey eyes study you for a few seconds, his gaze jumping back and forth between your own eyes. You hold your ground, even if there’s a mix of dread and apprehension running through your veins.

There’s still a part of you that is still the young girl that adored her father with all she had, that once she became a Captain vowed to be every bit the Captain he had been.

And Bucky sees right through you, because he knew that girl, he loved her.

So, he shakes his head, “Does it matter, doll?”

“I guess not,” You focus back on the pan and the cake, taking a deep breath after you take it out and put it on a plate. “I should…get this to the rest. Excuse me, Bucky.”

Before you can cross the door to the dining room, Bucky’s hand softly catches your arm, stopping you.

“Wait, Y/N. You-…I am trying to trust you, please know that.” He says, beseechingly, grey eyes the same hypnotizing shade you fell for so many years ago.

“I know,” You smile, reaching up on your tiptoes to press the softest of kisses against his stubble-covered jaw. “I know, Bucky.”

When you get back on your feet, looking up at him, you could swear there’s a hint of color on his cheeks. Some things never do change, huh?

“Meet me tonight,” He blurts out, eyes comically widening once he realizes what he said. He quickly amends it though, not giving your foolish heart a chance at thinking twice about it, “Us. Us. Steve, Peg, and…and Sam. We…things with the Triad have been dangerous lately, and if we can make sure this has nothing to do with Manhattan or anyone else in the Bratva…it will give my men more moving space.”

Cocking your head to the side, you inquire further, “My reports said Brock had nothing to do with the attack, if that’s what you are going at.”

“But your reports don’t match with mine, doll. Meet with us later tonight, at…” He clears his throat, “at my bar. We’ll go through everything, share intel.”

Pursing your lips to hide a smug smile, you nod.

“I’ll be there. Printsessa, is it?”

___

Thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you think!

Lots of love! I hope I cna post Bucky’s side of the story soon!

Love, Luce.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mobster!bucky x reader #mobster!bucky #mobster au #PLEASE leave feedback #i live off of it #even if i don't deserve it #or you guys #ty #ilysm

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Homecoming snippet (солдат, Bucky PoV)

IN YOUR HEARTBEAT MASTERLIST

This takes place directly after the last chapter of In Your Heartbeat  (Chapter 17) and goes into the Epilogue.

I’m putting it under the cut as it is kinda spoilery for the In Your Heartbeat Series.

I hope you liked it!

If you have been reading In Your Heartbeat please read this: And please, I’m posting this so I can get some feedback, some words, some voices, on how you think Bucky will react to the events of the last few chapters, and not only how you predict but how you would like or consider appropriate for him to react, ‘cause I’m kinda stuck a lil bit and I don’t know if I’m doing him justice.

Keep reading

#bucky x reader #bucky soulmate au #soulmate au #bucky barnes soulmate au #bucky barnes

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Homecoming snippet (солдат, Bucky PoV)

IN YOUR HEARTBEAT MASTERLIST

This takes place directly after the last chapter of In Your Heartbeat  (Chapter 17) and goes into the Epilogue.

I’m putting it under the cut as it is kinda spoilery for the In Your Heartbeat Series.

I hope you liked it!

If you have been reading In Your Heartbeat please read this: And please, I’m posting this so I can get some feedback, some words, some voices, on how you think Bucky will react to the events of the last few chapters, and not only how you predict but how you would like or consider appropriate for him to react, ‘cause I’m kinda stuck a lil bit and I don’t know if I’m doing him justice.

Sometimes, he thought he heard your voice, thought he knew it. At first, he heard the mirage of a familiar voice he didn’t remember ever hearing, he heard it repeating his name, the same way he called to the front of his mind your own, counting the beats, holding on to the certainty of you.

But then, when the drugs start taking effect and the hours in the tank stretch into unknown eternities, your voice changed. It turned angry, demanding, hurt, and, worst of all, scared. You yelled that he is a monster, that he would die there, all alone; and then your voice joined the others as he felt your soft neck under his hand as he broke it.

He never once had seen the Ghost, the Winter Soldier, in you.

Dead eyes stare back at him, and it is not even a realization when Bucky drops the rifle that he will not fight back, even if it is just a monster with your face, he cannot bring himself to fight it.

#bucky x reader #bucky soulmate au #soulmate au #bucky barnes soulmate au #bucky barnes

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Have you ever read that reader insert fic where she a telepath and she’s running from her past because she doesn’t wanna become something dangerous and can you link it if you have. I was reading it and my tumblr glitched and I lost it

No, I can’t say I have. I haven’t been very active on the tumblr fandom lately, but if anyone has, please let this lovely anon know!

Please reblog so the word can run faster! Thank you, I hope I could help!

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Could you add me to the tag list for Royals? I found it this morning when I couldn’t go to sleep and phew I love it sm!

Of course!! I am so happy you like the story, thank you so much for your kind words, they really made my day!! Lots of loveee!

ROYALS

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Royals (4/8)

ROYALS MASTERLIST HERE

Pairing: Bucky/Reader

Universe: Mobsters!1940′s!AU

Timeline: Early 1940′s, but I’m gonna gloss over the war, I’m sorry, I just can’t see a Steve that wouldn’t want to join the fight, so…I’m glossing over it.

Word Count:  5000 approx.

Summary: When someone from your past you weren’t expecting comes back, too many of the Siren’s words become lies, but so do Y/N’s

Warnings: Mentions of violence and misogyny if you squint, mentions of drinking (not alcohol abuse). Lemme know if there’s anything else you would like tagged

A/N: Okay, after a long break I’m back, but I can’t promise when or if I will come back. I know I write for myself, but I fell out of love with Marvel a lil bit and I feel a little alone lately when I post my writing. Idk, also, the summary sucks, i’m sorry. I’m sorry for taking so long to upload.

Would love hearing from you, and thank you for reading.

Keep reading

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mobster!bucky x reader #mobster au #mobster!bucky

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Royals (4/8)

ROYALS MASTERLIST HERE

Pairing: Bucky/Reader

Universe: Mobsters!1940′s!AU

Timeline: Early 1940′s, but I’m gonna gloss over the war, I’m sorry, I just can’t see a Steve that wouldn’t want to join the fight, so…I’m glossing over it.

Word Count:  5000 approx.

Summary: When someone from your past you weren't expecting comes back, too many of the Siren’s words become lies, but so do Y/N’s

Warnings: Mentions of violence and misogyny if you squint, mentions of drinking (not alcohol abuse). Lemme know if there’s anything else you would like tagged

A/N: Okay, after a long break I’m back, but I can’t promise when or if I will come back. I know I write for myself, but I fell out of love with Marvel a lil bit and I feel a little alone lately when I post my writing. Idk, also, the summary sucks, i’m sorry. I’m sorry for taking so long to upload.

Would love hearing from you, and thank you for reading.

Taglist (If you wanna be added or removed, lemme know): @amandamartinez3568 @champagnejoker @aunty-peggy @itsbuckysworld @mooniightbucky @whimsicalatbest @catvader1o1

You open the door after sprinting clumsily to it, your free hand still attaching the end of your earring in place.

A sharply dressed man is waiting on the other side. He smiles your way politely,

“Miss Carter is waiting for you, ma’am.”

You tell him it will only take a few moments, going back to the guest room in your apartment you took as a temporary closet and fetching your shoes. On your way out, the phone starts ringing, though, so you make another stop.

“Good morning.” You greet cautiously, well aware your apartment’s number is not known publicly.

“Hello, sweetcheeks.”

Even through the line, even despite the distance, a part of you hardens, and you straighten your back and make sure to keep your emotions out of your expression and your tone.

“Brock.”

“Miss me?” He drawls out, a hint of the influence of alcohol in his voice, but not enough for you to think you can thread without care.

“You know Manhattan will always be my home.” You answer instead, ensuring you sweeten your tone even as you evade his question.

“Are you sure? ‘Cause you seemed pretty at home running with Barnes’ people these last few weeks.” He states simply, making ice run down your spine.

“You have people on Brooklyn?” You ask before you can think twice about it, giving away the truth behind his accusations and giving him an opening to think that you have anything to hide.

Which you don’t. A smarter, more battle-worn part of you wishes you did, wishes you had spent your time gathering information about Bucky’s intentions, about the real power of his people in Brooklyn, about how much of that power could translate into a war with Manhattan.

A colder part of you, a part of you that sings men to their dooms, wishes you would move again to try and seduce Bucky back into compliance, wishes you could ignore the painful beat of your heart after the night you spent together and try and get him on your sheets, if not your side.

You have ignored those parts of you, though. You have ignored what makes you the Siren and focused on getting to know what makes you Y/N again.

Lunch dates with Peggy and Steve, visits to the diner of your teenage years. You get to know the soldiers forged in the wake of your departure, they try to learn to trust the Siren that danced with their sworn, although secret, enemy.

Brock doesn’t ask why you got so defensive though, and instead laughs mockingly.

“I made it clear you are not indispensable, baby.”

“And here I thought you loved me.” You state dryly in response, sitting down on the armrest of your couch.

“And here I thought you were on my side.” He spites back, startling you at the hidden rage in his voice.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The hiss in your voice is not lost to either of you, but this is the most controlled you can muster. The words ‘I was never on your side’ try clawing their way out of your heart, but you don’t let them.

Not yet. Not until your empire is yours again, and you hold the barrel of your father’s gun against his head.

“If you weren’t so busy rolling around with Barnes, sweetcheeks, you would be aware I know everything you do in that city of his.”

Clenching your jaw so tight you fear for the state of your teeth after this, you force the seductive yet emotionless mask of the Siren back in place.

Your voice is a purr when you state, “You knew when you hired me what I am willing to do for the Bratva.”

The threat, the controlled power Brock Rumlow holds in his clenched fist is not lost on you as he dangles his temporary superiority over your head when he says, “I hope that doesn’t include betraying us, Siren.”

But your response is measured, calculated. A risk you are willing to take, because the day you swear your allegiance to Brock, however fake it would be, is the day you give away the last piece of resistance your family has left.

“You haven’t given me a reason to.”

Oh, but he has, and he knows it very well.

A few moments of silence, and you hear the faint sound of ice clinking on a glass as Brock presumably drains the rest of his drink.

“I want reports on my desk come tomorrow morning, then.” He orders simply.

“Reports of what?”

“Of whatever you got Barnes to confide you with, of course,” Brock replies, “Am I to assume you have spent time with him for something other than power, girl?”

“Because I love him.” You reply easily, but the boy forced be a man in front of you scoffs, dismissing your answer.

“He can’t offer you what I can,” He drawls out, smirk on his lips. “Nothing but a shuk-”

Your hand makes contact with his cheek before the word is done leaving his lips, a faint trail of blood left behind on his cheekbone from the scratch of your mother’s ring.

“Bucky is twice the man you are, Brock.” You spit back, turning your back to him and readying your heart to harden in order to handle the party still happening outside the room.

He grabs your forearm before you can move far, though, and forces you to stay still. Although, you refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning around to face him.

“You won’t want to do that again, sweetcheeks.”

“You won’t want me against you, Rumlow. I suggest you get your hand off me.” You spit back, and after a second, he releases you. His words make a shiver run down your spine as they follow you out of the room:

“I’ll have you begging for scraps, Y/N. Mark my words.”

“Of course not.” You answer through the phone, and you hear rustling on the other side, as if Brock is getting comfortable.

“Then you better get working on those reports, sugar.”

The door to your apartment opens slightly, forcing you to hide a wince when you see Peggy peeking through and finding you on the couch.

Keeping your eyes on hers, and begging whoever is willing to listen that she can forgive you for this, you concede,

“It will be done.”

____

 You are walking down the street towards some diner with Peggy and Steve when a shriek of your name puts you all three in high alert.

You have barely a second o recognize the schoolgirl running towards you is not a threat before she is wrapping her arms around your midcriff, brown hair mussed against your face and fast-paced babbles reaching your ears.

"I heard the rumors you were back, but you know, people gossip about-..."She interrupts herself, seemingly catching another train of thought and deciding to run with it, "But then I saw Bucky when he took me out for lunch and I knew, ya' know? My brother is only that miserable or happy when it comes to you and-..."

"Rebecca!?" You finally gasp, taking her in. Long gone is the eight year old child, and now she stands in front of you in highschool outfit and heeled shoes.

"Well, duh," One of her friends call out to her, and she turns to them before looking back at you, "Can we catch up? Maybe come to a family dinner? For old times sake?"

You want to say no, you want to sever ties and run back to your family’s estate, you want to start over, you want to run.

But that is not what is useful, you remind yourself. That is not what the Siren needs, that is not what you must. What you want cowers under the weight of the responsibility of being the head of your family.

You learned that over eight years ago.

You agree with vacant eyes and plastic smile, trying to ignore the tug at your heart when the girl hugs you tightly and whispers how she is glad you are back before scurrying off to her friends.

A family dinner, that is all there is, you tell yourself. A few Captains, more than enough Bratov to keep the Captains on edge; a few mandatory ceremonies during the night, but just enough to keep Bucky from noticing you. You will get some intel, forward some useless bits of it to Brock and keep him off your back.

It has to be this way.

“It has to be this way.” Your mother admits, her eyes on yours when a lesser woman would have lowered her gaze.

You swallow back your tears, your anger, your pain.

The youngest of the Rumlow’s offers you his hand, and you ignore the way your friends, the people you grew up with, watch you take it with the eyes of someone that doesn’t know you at all.

You try to ignore your childish heart breaking for the boy with grey eyes and charming smile, that watches dejectedly as another man leads you on the dance floor.

You walk the plank, and the sailors bury you at sea.

“Hey, Y/N, you okay?” Steve asks, making you jump at his comforting touch on your shoulder. You nod swiftly, not even trying to make eye contact as you propose silently the three of you keep walking.

Peggy calls you back, though,

“That girl really cares for you.”

“I know, Peg.”

“You better not…”

“Not what?” You interrupt, turning to her with a cold stare. Peggy doesn’t back down, though, and raises her chin as she finishes,

“Disappoint her again.”

Giving in, you sigh, and pinching the bridge of your nose between your thumb and index finger, you say,

“You know Bucky doesn’t want me there, Peggy.”

“Well, it ain’t just his home,” Steve states simply, arm around your shoulders and a gentle squeeze in his hug before continuing, “It’ll be fun. We’ll pick you up, be with you the whole night, and get blind drunk with ya’ if you want.”

“You can’t get drunk, Steven.” His fiancé mutters, rolling her eyes.

“You are right, doll. But ya’ can, and it is fun as all hell to watch.” Steve teases back, easy smile on his lips as he watches her give a reluctant smile his way.

Trying to ignore the pang of nostalgia, the pang of pain and jealousy and regret, you shake off his arm gently and agree to the diner with a somewhat sincere smile.

___

Once Peggy and Steve drop you off in your family’s estate, you force yourself to gain back the control running into Rebecca took away from you. The girl’s warmth and innocence, the obvious way she was so different from the eight-year-old you left behind but also so much like her, like the girl that teased her brother and called him ‘sunbeam’ because that was in her opinion his expression when someone mentioned you; she rattled you to the core, made you realize how much of who you remain to be is jagged pieces, masks and moves in the Game.

You take a shower, and face your bare face in the mirror. Without the make-up, with the tiredness and stress of the last few weeks clear on your face, without the edge of the Siren or the nostalgic joy of the girl that came back from the depths of the cold sea; you can’t help but see a certain emptiness.

Or maybe emptiness isn’t the right word. Maybe something like hesitance, like a space in between life and death, where you don’t exist on one plane or the other.

You wonder if it is a destiny somehow worse than death.

A chorus, a mix of angry spats, of short acknowledgements, of awed greetings greet your ears.

Nayada.

Siren.

And she is called forth, with the rage of a thousand women buried at sea; so you take a deep breath, and ready yourself for the diner at the Barnes’ estate.

You sharpen your claws,

“Green does look good on ya’, doll.” Bucky mutters, leaning back on his elbows as he sits on the bed, eyes following the trail of your stockings as they go back up your thighs.

You smile, “I’ll keep it in mind, Barnes.”

The dark green fabric falls over your curves like satin. You have to avoid your own eyes in the mirror, but you can see the allure of the Siren in the way your body moves.

And you bare your teeth,

The Carter Matriarch looks you up and down, a smirk growing on her worn face as she reaches your eyes with her own.

“You have fire within you, girl.” She states softly, but you cannot miss the steel underneath, the sheer strength and courage. It is with that same strength that she takes your chin between her fingers and orders, “Do not ever let them extinguish it.”

The lipstick paints your lips with the taint of the blood the words coming from them have had spilled. You still smile, and remind yourself of the stain of your father’s blood on your mother’s skin to relieve the guilt.

__

Something changes in Peggy’s open expression when she sees you take a seat next to her on the car, and you throw her an inquisitive glace, but she says nothing, signaling for the driver to speed off into Brooklyn’s night.

“You look good, Peg.” You mutter, shifting uncomfortably in your place.

The British woman turns to you for a second, then focuses her attention on the streets passing by you.

“You look like the Siren.”

You bit your tongue, and swallow your words, but they are still branded over your heart.

The Siren is what I have to be.

__

Your car moves expertly through Brooklyn’s streets, but you pay no mind to it, your mind focused on the dinner ahead of you.

Nerves churn at your stomach, tremors take over your hands, as you try and secure in place the mask of the Princess of Brooklyn, of the Siren, of the Bratva Captain, of the Matriarch bereft of her title.

You walk down the steps, the thousands of times practiced movements not swayed by the weakness in your muscles, the apprehension in your heart.

You smile despite the cold hate in their eyes, because it’s what they told you to. You swallow the bitter disgust as men older than your own father leer at you like a prize, because it’s what you are supposed to do.

But you are your mother’s daughter. So you take in their posture and their expression, because they are too arrogant to consider masking their weakness in front of a girl. And you watch the room for evidence of the words your mother placed in the right ears, because no action is taken within the Bratva without the Game.

A couple of hours later, sitting on one of the corners of your father’s ballroom, you have to clench your hands into fists to stop them from shaking, you have to close your eyes tightly to keep the tears at bay.

A cold glass is pressed into your hand, and you open your eyes to watch as your mother takes a seat next to you, nursing a glass of scotch just like the one she set in front of you.

She motions to your glass with her head.

“Bottoms up,” She advises, “You will need it.”

You search her eyes desperately, sure yours are as full of fear as they can be.

“I can’t do this, mom.”

She just smiles, something cold and dead in her eyes as she states, “You can, and you will.”

The car turns into a too-familiar street, stops in front of a too-familiar driveway. A thousand memories flash before your eyes, and you can only follow Peggy numbly as she gets out of the car.

Steve’s head peeks from the wide-open front door, a big smile settling on his lips as he spots Peggy’s car.

“Hi, baby.” He greets softly, an arm wrapping itself around her with ease. He turns to you and greets you with more kindness than you deserve.

“Y/N!” Rebecca yells, and you have barely a second before the lithe brunette has her arms wrapped around you in a tight hug. “I’m so glad you made it!”

Your lips curve into a smile without you meaning for them too, but you take a step back and regard the teen.

“Rebecca, you told me…”

��Yeah, mom sets up family dinners every week, you know that!” She scoffs, taking your hand with ease and tugging you into the house. Panic grips your heart.

Winifred’s reluctant smile as Bucky presses a kiss on her cheek. Rebecca’s loud complaints of his brother’s ‘sunbeam’ face. Steve’s drawings managing to find a home in every flat surface of the house.

The lovingly chaotic family dinners the Barnes’ household submitted itself to, even if only to share a piece of old bread.

You catch Peggy’s confused stare, and watch in real time as she realizes the kind of diner you were agreeing to join.

Her smile turns devious, “Hurry, Y/N. Winnie has been dying to see you.”

Rebecca tugs harder, and you switch your panicked eyes between her and Steve.

Your tone is final and terrified as you squeak, “She will kill me.”

“You are a Bratva Captain.”

“I am her baby boy’s ex, Margaret.” You reply with a hiss, prompting a snort to leave Peggy’s lips, her smiling face turning to hide in Steve’s chest as he regards you with a mix of guilt and amusement.

Apparently, Bucky is running late on some Bratva business, and the household busies itself arranging the dining room and porch for dinner and the aftermath outside on the cool Brooklyn night. You wish you didn’t hold that routine to heart, you wish it wasn’t something you missed dearly.

“She knows who I am, doesn’t she?” You ask, unconsciously resisting Bucky’s pull as he guides you to his house by the hand.

“She knows you’re my girl, yeah.” He answers, a small, proud smile curving his lips upwards. And for a moment, witnessing the light behind his eyes that ahs been there since the moment you both decided whatever was going on between you deserved a name and a promise, you forget your fear of walking through the door of the Barnes’ household.

“Can I help?” You ask meekly, standing near the kitchen but never entering it. Not eight years, not eighty, could erase from your head Winifred’s threats of bodily and mental harm upon those that enter her kitchen while she is cooking.

The woman scoffs, and doesn’t turn your way.

Rebecca rolls her eyes from where she is sitting on the island counter, peeling potatoes carefully, “Mom.”

Her mother heaves a sigh, and turns to face you for the first time since she regarded you with hatred as you walked through her front door. Her silver eyes take in your attire, going up and down your body in a clinical-like scrutiny.

“Stevie here says he trusts you.” She states.

“Not yet. I did say I love her.” He corrects from his place on the bench on the front porch, the open window giving him access to the conversation.

“Many have made that mistake.” Winifred hisses, but disregards whatever she was planning on saying next, and shoves some cutlery in your hands. “Set the table, girl.”

You say nothing more, and busy yourself in the dining room. There has been an iron grip on your stomach and heart ever since your car pulled up in the familiar driveway. You expected a Bratva dinner, full of poisoned smiles and siren songs.

You didn’t expect to be back in the house where some of your happiest memories were made.

You grumble to yourself as you search through the tablecloths stored in the lower cabinet of Winnie’s dinning room.

Too dark the green to match the napkins. The next one is too bright. The other one is a nice shade of yellow, but it wouldn’t match the curtains, even if it would the palette of the napkins.

“Need any help?” Bucky asks from the doorway behind you, startling you.

“Yes! Get in here!” You whisper, motioning wildly with your hand. “I can’t find a tablecloth.”

Bucky’s grey-blue eyes move carefully and slowly from your face to the armful of linens you hold in your hands. When his gaze returns to you, you catch a glimpse of mischief, even if he tries to hold back his smile for your sake.

“Doll…Imma need ya’ to talk me through this one.”

Gritting your teeth, you hiss, “They don’t match.”

“The tablecloths.”

“Yes.”

“With the…table?”

“The napkins, Buck!” You sigh, nervous hands soothing over non-existent wrinkles in the folded linens. “I want Winnie to like me, and I’m messing this up already.”

“Hey, that’s not true,” He says, hands folding over yours and soothing the nervousness in your system, if only for a second. “My Ma’ is a hard cookie to crack, but she likes ya’, alright?”

“How do you know that?”

“She only lets people she likes stay for dinner,” Bucky presses a kiss on your hair, and helps you to your feet, taking the linens from your hands as he does so. “C’mon, I’ll help you with the table.”

Shaking your head, you focus on the task at hand, ignoring how the ghost of the past guides you through the steps of readying the dinning room for the Barnes’ family dinner.

Suddenly the conversations in the other room end swiftly, and the hairs in the back of your neck stand stiffly to attention.

You are facing the small cabinet where you were tidying and decorating with a small tablecloth to match with the one in the dinner table, and you keep your back to the entrance as you hear Bucky’s fast and determined footsteps approaching the room.

“What are you doing here?” His words have never sounded more like a snarl than now. Understandable, though. The one thing he would do anything to protect, and you are standing in their dining room.

“Rebecca invited me over.” You reply without missing a beat, your back still to him as you straighten the tablecloth a few times before taking a deep breath.

Bucky doesn’t answer for a few beats, and the silence rings in your ears, despite the fact that somewhere in the back of your head you recognize Steve teasing Peggy about helping Winifred in the kitchen, to which the Barnes’ matriarch responds with a playful grumble of how not even Boulestin could teach that girl to cook.

Problem is, you can’t tell if it’s just a memory or if it is happening right now.

And you are not sure you want the answer.

You turn around, and the cold anger, the betrayal, swimming in Bucky’s grey eyes make something within you break.

Resting your hands on the table between you, you force a sigh.

“If I knew…I wouldn’t have-…” You let out a frustrated breath, “I was here on business, Bu-…Barnes.”

“Was?” He questions, his eyes betraying that something in him gives up the fight at the same time as you.

You shrug in response, “This…family has a way of growing on me.”

A shadow of what once would have been a smile crosses his lips, but his eyes are still distant, his voice guarded when he motions with his head to the backyard.

“Walk with me, Y/N.”

You straighten your back and lead the way out of the house.

You stifle a giggle against Bucky’s lips as he lifts you up against the dining room wall, ignoring your whispered protests.

You can taste the satisfied smile on his lips as you melt into the kiss, bringing your arms up around him and angling your head to deepen the embrace.

“Girl, woul-…James Buchanan!” Winifred bellows, making Bucky step away from you with a sheepish smile directed at his mother. She narrows her eyes, not giving in to his pleading eyes. “I swear, I raised barn animals.”

You laugh quietly at her exasperated words, but freeze when she sets her eyes on you.

“Y/N, you were supposed to be better than this, girl.”

You offer her a shrug, “Your son is very convincing, ma’am.”

Finally, a small smile cracks Winifred’s façade, and she rolls her eyes, ushering you two out of the room with grumbled words.

“Fine, we’ll take a walk before dinner.” Bucky agrees, arm wrapping around your waist with ease.

“Oh, no you won’t!” His mother is quick to respond. “You will be staying here and tidying up, and you Y/N, help me in the kitchen.”

The woman leads you with a hand on your back, more motherly than you have felt in your own home, and points to some uncooked yams sitting in the counter.

You set to washing and peeling them, while Winnie bussies herself on the slow cooker.

“My boy cares about you, Y/N,” She states, a threat and a compliment all mixed in her blunt statement. With a deep breath she continues, “By the way he talked about ya’, I would think you hung the moon and the stars. Then he brought me to meet ya a few months ago, and I noticed the damn fool looks at you like you do.”

You hide your smile as you duck your head, busying yourself with the dinner. You could swear a smile curves Winnie’s lips upwards as she continues too.

You follow his guide to the small backyard, and sit next to Bucky on the wooden stairs that end the porch. Silence spreads over the air, a mix of calming and unnerving, like the breeze flowing around a cliff.

There’s something within you keeping you from being the one to break the silence, and you keep your gaze to the small backyard, trying to discern between memories, what if’s, and the cruel reality.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Bucky’s broad shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath.

“Why are you here? Really.”

Your answer is automatic, rehearsed, and it burns your tongue like acid as it comes out, “My family sti-…”

“The real reason.”

Breathing out a bitter laugh, you lean to the side, resting your back on the railing and facing the profile of Brooklyn’s Captain as you answer, with whatever truth you can manage,

“I spent so long lying to…everyone. Brock, Natasha, their guests, their enemies. There was always a new mask to be worn, a new lie to be told and I…I got tired of it.

Bucky turns to look at you, really look at you, for the first time in what feels like forever. So close to him to those grey-blue eyes that haunted you for eight years, you cannot help feeling closer to the girl you were, to the life you had, to the memories you made.

Your eyes remain locked on his, facing with your own uncertainty and pain the distrust and betrayal in his.

“I suppose…when you lie for so long about who you are, you forget to tell yourself the truth.” You finish in a breath, shrugging, and forcing your gaze back to the space ahead of you, and away from him.

Maybe because it is easier not to. Maybe because the sharp pain of the lie is better than the slow poison of the truth.

It takes a while before any of you speaks again, but the silence somehow feels less like an absence and more like the very real and notable presence of your past selves, like forgotten songs being brought back if only for a second, if only to remind you of what you had, of what you lost, of what you want.

“Y/N,” He starts, making you wonder for a second why it feels like this is the first time he has said your name since…since before. You turn to face Bucky, and his eyes find yours without pause, searching and searching and searching. “I need to know I can trust you.”

“We both know you don’t. And you won’t, no matter what I say.” You reply with ease, no trace of accusation in your tone, no anger, no resentment. Truth tastes your lips, for the first time in a while, and it unsettles you.

He huffs, running a hand through his hair in a gesture you remember with fondness. Knowing he is trying to gather his thoughts, you stay in silence, enjoying the simple sounds of your city at night.

“I have people I need to protect, doll.” He explains swiftly, the endearment nothing more than a compulsion, a result of the blurred lines of past and present in the never-ending night of Brooklyn.

You find his eyes when you answer, “So do I, Bucky.”

Bucky regards you for a few seconds, his eyes searching your own; and you cannot help but notice how close he is, and how you can notice the slight tinge of red in the tip of his angular nose at the cold of the night.

Finally, he takes a deep breath,

“Are you working with Rumlow, Princess?”

You find his steely eyes with ease, and for a second too long, you want to close your eyes and move with the liberating melody of having truthful words leave your lips, but the woman made out of the Princess forces your strings and makes you dance to a different song.

“No, I am not.”

___

I know, it sucks, I’m sorry. I just had to get back to it, and yeah, sorry.

Hope you stayed till the end, thank you for reading, please leave some feedback. Love ya.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mobster!bucky x reader #mobster au #mobster!bucky

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Bucky, speaking into his arm that is recording: Day 14 in the Soul Stone, so far no notable incidents, people are finding various ways to amuse themselves. Right now the tree creature is singing “I am groot” to the tune of “Despacito”, the greatest song of all time according to Spider-Boy. I can not detect any animosity between peopl-

Peter, following Sam: But why a falcon…why not… let’s say… an ostrich?

Bucky: Correction, Sam Wilson is about to murder a minor. I have to go.

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Delivery Soldier by vungi

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Captain America: Civil War (2016)

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

Is it kiss?

Please say it’s kiss

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

#once i look into that scene #obvsly for science reasons #i learn to love the cinematography of the dir #even if i know nothing abt it #like damn #they nailed the terrifying aspect of the ws #i need to stop looking at it #but damn #just...gah

[bucky-is-a-hero-fightme]

marvel poc week

— day four: favorite male mcu poc ◇ t’challa