#mob bucky

Bucky stilled.

Inside, the cabaret was packed shoulder to shoulder. Men in tailored suits. Women dripping in silk and diamonds. Everyone leaned toward the stage like you were a secret they’d paid dearly to hear. You stood beneath a single amber light, hands curled around the microphone, eyes half-lidded as you sang like the room belonged to you—even though it never truly had.

It used to, once.

The old owner had been a good man. Gruff, yes. Stern. But he’d kept his hands clean and his promises cleaner. He’d given you a place to sing, a roof when you were too young to have either, and rules that were ironclad: no touching the talent.

Then he died.

And the man who took over made it very clear what he thought your voice was worth.

You’d said no the first time. Politely.

The second time, less so.

By the third, you’d told him you’d walk—and he’d smiled thinly and reminded you how many people came just to hear you sing. How many mouths depended on this place staying open. How easy it would be to ruin you if you tried to leave.

So you stayed. But you didn’t bend.

Bucky learned all of this in pieces. From whispers. From ledgers. From the way the slime ball—Frankie Russo—sweated through his suit when Bucky acquired the club in a deal so bad it might as well have been a confession.

When Frankie realized who now owned the place, he panicked.

That’s when he made his final mistake.

“She’s special,” Frankie said eagerly, walking Bucky through the club after hours. “Brings in half the crowd. You want her, she’s yours. Consider it… a gift.”

You were standing on the stage, gathering your coat. You’d heard it all.

You turned slowly, chin lifting, eyes sharp and unafraid.

“No.”

The word cut clean.

Bucky stopped walking.

Frankie laughed nervously. “C’mon, sweetheart—”

“I said no,” you repeated, voice steady. “To him. To you. To anyone who thinks they own me because I sing for a living.”

Silence fell thick as smoke.

You met Bucky’s gaze then—really met it—and didn’t look away. Most people did. They flinched, stammered, tried to bargain.

You just stood there, daring him.

Something in Bucky shifted.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t raise his voice. He only said, “Leave us.”

Frankie blinked. “Boss—”

“Now.”

Frankie scurried.

You waited until the door shut before grabbing your coat and moving past him. “If you’re here to make the same offer,” you said coolly, “save your breath. I won’t change my answer.”

Bucky watched you go.

Then, later that night, in a dark alley that smelled of wet concrete and bad decisions, Frankie Russo learned that offering women like currency came with consequences.

No one ever tied it back to Bucky Barnes.

You noticed the changes immediately.

No more backroom threats. No lingering hands. The books were cleaned. The staff paid on time. A bouncer appeared at your side every night—respectful, silent, immovable.

And Bucky?

He never asked for you.

He came to listen.

Always from the shadows. Always still. His eyes followed you like you were something holy and dangerous all at once. When you sang, his world narrowed to the sound of you breathing between verses.

It unnerved you.

Men like him didn’t wait. They took.

So when he finally spoke to you—weeks later, offering you a drink you hadn’t asked for—you braced yourself.

“I don’t belong to you,” you said immediately.

“I know,” he replied.

That stopped you.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t corner you. He spoke like a man carefully placing glass on marble.

“I bought the club,” he said. “Not you.”

You studied him, searching for the lie.

“Why protect me, then?”

His jaw tightened. “Because no one should’ve ever tried to break you.”

You laughed softly. “That didn’t start here.”

“I figured.”

You didn’t trust him. How could you? You’d learned what promises were worth when whispered by powerful men. You guarded your independence like a blade at your throat.

And yet—

He never demanded. Never caged. When you threatened to leave, he only said, “If you go, it’ll be because you chose to. Not because someone pushed you.”

That was when you started to see it.

The yearning.

The way his hand flexed when you brushed past. The way his voice softened when he said your name. How the most dangerous man in the city waited for permission he didn’t need—but wanted.

When you finally kissed him, it was your choice.

When you loved him, it was on your terms.

And Bucky Barnes, feared by half the city, loved you like a man grateful for something he never thought he’d be allowed to keep.

The club became yours one night—papers slid across the table, signed without ceremony.

“You don’t own me,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he said. “I just want to stand beside you.”

He’s coiled. Watching. Starving.

His hand rests on his thigh, thumb dragging slowly back and forth as if he’s physically restraining himself from crossing the room and dragging you into his lap.

“You done yet, Mrs. Barnes?” His voice is low, wrecked from the reception and the champagne and all the ways he’d whispered I can’t wait to get you alone into your neck all night.

You shiver.

“You’re the one who insisted I sit down for five minutes,” you remind him softly, brushing a fingertip over the remains of your lipstick. “And I’m not ‘Mrs. Barnes’ yet, technically.”

He huffs a quiet, sinful laugh. “Sweetheart, the second you walked down that aisle, you were mine. Paperwork is just a courtesy.”

You meet his gaze in the mirror.

It’s dangerous. Dark. Hungry.

Your wedding dress had been beautiful hours ago—now it’s slightly rumpled, bodice loosened, skirt bunched around your legs as you shift in the chair. And Bucky is eating up every inch of you.

“Turn around,” he murmurs.

You do, the veil whispering across the floor as you pivot toward him. The moment he sees you—the flushed cheeks, the undone hair, the soft fabric slipping off one shoulder—his jaw flexes.

“Jesus,” he breathes, dropping his foot to the floor so he can lean forward, elbows on his knees. “You look like something I should pray for.”

“Bucky,” you whisper, embarrassed and warm and trembling all at once.

“What?” he asks, rising from the chair in a single slow, predatory movement. “It’s my wedding day too, sweetheart.”

He walks toward you with that quiet, lethal grace that always makes your pulse skitter. Even out of the suit jacket, he looks impossibly sharp, all clean lines and strong shoulders and the glint of his cufflinks catching the light.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t touch you—not at first. He simply stands behind your chair, palms braced on either side of you, caging you in place.

His breath warms your neck.

“I’ve been waiting,” he murmurs against your skin, “all goddamn day to get you alone.”

Your fingers curl around the edge of the vanity.

“You had me alone for pictures,” you tease.

“That wasn’t alone,” he counters, lips ghosting down to your shoulder. “I couldn’t touch you the way I wanted to. Couldn’t get on my knees and lift that pretty skirt. Couldn’t ruin your lipstick.” He smiles against your bare skin. “And I wanted to ruin it.”

Your breath catches.

Bucky finally touches you—slow hands sliding over the bare parts of your waist where the bodice has loosened. His palms are hot against your skin, fingers pressing in, molding to every curve like he’s relearning your body even though he’s memorized it for years.

He looks at you in the mirror again.

“Baby,” he says softly, eyes darkening, “you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

His fingertips slip under the lace, nudging it aside until more of your shoulder is bare. “Turn around for me.”

You do, rising from the chair. The veil drags behind you like a long, pale ghost. You stand between his hands, looking up at him, suddenly shy even though this man has done every filthy thing imaginable to you.

He notices the shift instantly—of course he does—cradling your jaw gently. “Hey,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “You nervous?”

You shake your head. “Not nervous. Just…” You swallow. “You’re staring at me like you want to eat me alive.”

His lips part, and something hot and proud flashes in his eyes.

“Sweetheart,” he growls, “I’m tryin’ to decide if I wanna take you to bed like a gentleman… or bend you over this vanity so you start our marriage with my handprint on your ass.”

Your knees threaten to give out.

He catches your waist, steadying you. “There she is,” he whispers, grinning as you melt into his hands. “There’s my girl.”

His thumb drags slowly down your lower lip.

“You know why I’m lookin’ at you like that?” he murmurs. “Because you walked into my life and ruined every plan I ever had. Because you’re mine. Because there’s not one man in that reception hall who didn’t want a taste of you today.”

“Bucky—”

He silences you with a soft kiss—just a brush of lips, tender but charged.

“And because,” he adds against your mouth, “I get to be the one who unwraps you.”

His hands find the back of your dress, unfastening the tiny clasps with infuriating slowness. Each one slips open under his steady fingers, baring more warm skin, more lace, more you.

The dress loosens, sliding down your arms, pooling at your hips.

Bucky inhales sharply.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

He drops to his knees.

The sight of your husband—your mob boss husband—in a thousand-dollar suit kneeling in front of you steals every breath from your lungs.

He lifts your skirt gently, reverently, his fingertips tracing the backs of your thighs.

“Been dreaming of this,” he mutters, kissing your knee, your thigh, the soft inside where your pulse flutters. “The wedding. The vows. The moment I finally get my mouth on you.”

Your hand slides into his hair, tugging.

He groans—low and broken.

“That’s it,” he rasps, kissing higher. “Tell me what you want on our wedding night, sweetheart.”

“You,” you admit, voice thin. “I want you.”

He looks up at you from his knees, eyes dark and devoted. The sight is enough to buckle you.

“You’ve had me,” he says softly, lifting your leg over his shoulder. “You’ll always have me. But tonight?”

His breath ghosts over your inner thigh.

“Tonight you get every unholy part of me.”

The vanity lights glow around you, the veil shimmering behind you, your dress half-fallen, and Bucky’s mouth finally finds you—slow, tender, worshipful.

You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair as he moans like he’s been starving for this.

He pulls back just long enough to murmur against your skin:

“Happy wedding day, Mrs. Barnes.”

But then she came.

You didn’t even know her name at first—just the baker, like it was a fairytale. The woman with flour on her hands and sugar on her lips, the one who looked at Bucky like she didn’t know what he was capable of. The one who smiled at him like he was good.

And the worst part? He smiled back.

The first time you saw them together, you were leaving his office. She came in through the back, a small box in hand, her laugh soft as powdered sugar. You froze when Bucky’s entire face changed—gone was the mob boss, the steel, the sharp edges.

He looked… human.

You wanted to hate her for it. You really did.

But you couldn’t.

Because she didn’t know what she’d done—how she’d taken the only piece of him you’d ever had without even realizing it. And you? You couldn’t stay. Not when every room you entered had her laughter echoing through it.

So you did what you were best at. You disappeared.

Bucky didn’t notice at first. He had men, muscle, money—he had her.

But the day his next job went sideways, he noticed. The contacts weren’t answering. The accounts were sloppy. The information that used to fall into his lap had gone quiet.

Because that had been you. The ghost in his machine. The whisper in every back alley.

He tried to call you. Twice. You didn’t answer.

By the third time, he knew. He’d lost his right hand.

Two years passed.

You built a quiet life far from the noise. Somewhere with morning fog and coffee that didn’t taste like regret. Somewhere people didn’t know what it meant to owe their life to a man like him.

You worked with a security firm—small, clean, legitimate. Your new boss, Daniel, had kind eyes and the patience to let silence sit without trying to fill it. He never asked about the scars, never pushed when your hands shook.

He just brought you coffee every morning and told you the world was softer than you thought.

And maybe—maybe—he was right.

The past has a way of catching up, though.

You saw him again in a parking garage in midtown, late afternoon. Gray suit, slicked hair, that same impossible presence that used to fill every room.

Bucky froze when he saw you. You looked different—lighter somehow. There was no gun in your belt, no edge in your eyes. Just a woman who’d learned how to breathe again.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice breaking like it hadn’t in years. “Christ. I thought you were dead.”

You tilted your head, half a smile tugging at your lips. “Guess I’m not that easy to kill.”

He stepped closer, slow, careful—like you were something fragile. “You just left.”

“I had to.”

He flinched at the finality in your tone. “Was it because of her?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you met his eyes—those stormy, too-blue eyes that had once meant everything.

“Bucky,” you said softly, “you made me your right hand, not your heart.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. “That wasn’t fair to you.”

“No,” you whispered. “But I let it happen. Because I thought—if I was good enough, if I did enough—you’d look at me like you looked at her.”

His shoulders dropped, the weight of it settling in the air between you. “And now?”

“Now?” You smiled, small but real. “Now I don’t need you to.”

He stared at you for a long time—long enough for his mask to slip, long enough for regret to flood in like a tide.

“I didn’t see you,” he said, voice cracking. “Not really. I didn’t know how.”

“I know.”

“I tried to find you.”

You nodded. “And when you did?”

He let out a shaky breath. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I am,” you said, and for the first time in years, it was true.

Behind you, Daniel called your name, holding up your coffee with that same easy grin. You waved. “Coming!”

When you turned back, Bucky’s expression faltered—recognition flickering in his eyes, but not envy. Just understanding.

You took a step closer, close enough that he could smell your perfume—the same kind you used to wear on late nights in the office.

“I hope you’re happy, Bucky,” you said quietly. “Really.”

He nodded, throat working. “You deserve peace.”

You smiled, a little sad, a little proud. “I found it.”

Later, as you walked toward Daniel and handed him his coffee back, you glanced once over your shoulder.

Bucky was still there—hands in his pockets, jaw clenched, eyes glistening in the dying light.

You gave him a small nod. A goodbye.

He returned it.

For a moment, it was like the world held its breath—the empire he built and the ghosts he’d buried all standing still.

Then you turned, and he let you go.

That night, Bucky drove to the edge of the city and parked by the water. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, watching the smoke curl upward.

The baker was waiting at home, sweet and soft and safe. He loved her—he really did. But somewhere deep in his chest, there was still a place carved out in the shape of you.

His right hand. His shadow. His almost.

Bucky opens the door before you can even knock again. His expression softens when he sees you—lip trembling, eyes wet, heart broken. Then his jaw tightens, dangerous and calm all at once. “Who did it?” he asks, low and quiet.

“Doesn’t matter,” you whisper, voice breaking. “He—he cheated. I just—”

Bucky’s hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. “C’mere, baby. You shouldn’t be cryin’ over a boy who doesn’t know what to do with a woman like you.”

You collapse against his chest, sob muffled into the soft cotton of his black tee. His arms come around you like a wall, like safety itself. The smell of smoke and whiskey and Bucky—warm, dark, steady—fills your lungs until your shaking slows.

He’s been waiting for this moment far longer than he’ll admit. Waiting for you to realize that every time your boyfriend ignored you, Bucky was the one answering your texts. That every time you needed help, he was there—money, muscle, heart—while pretending it didn’t kill him to let you leave with someone else.

Now, finally, you’re here.

And when you whisper, “Please don’t make me go home,” Bucky’s restraint fractures.

It starts slow.

You’re sitting on his couch, one of his big hands rubbing gentle circles on your thigh, voice soft as he murmurs, “He didn’t deserve you anyway, doll. Man like that doesn’t get a second chance.”

You nod, biting your lip. His thumb moves higher.

“Bucky…”

“Yeah?”

Your eyes meet his—blue fire, dark with something dangerous—and you breathe, “I just want to forget.”

That’s all the permission he needs.

He’s on you in an instant—mouth hot and hungry, hands gripping your hips, lifting you into his lap like you weigh nothing. His tongue slides into your mouth, slow and deep, tasting salt and heartbreak and months of unspoken want. You moan against him, nails digging into his shoulders, and he groans like it hurts.

“Been waitin’ for you to say that, sweetheart,” he growls against your lips. “Been waitin’ for you to come to your fuckin’ senses.”

He carries you to your bedroom—your apartment, your bed—and lays you down like a treasure he’s finally claimed. Then he ruins you for anyone else.

Clothes scatter. His rings flash. Your breath stutters when he drags his mouth down your chest, teeth scraping over your nipple before he sucks it between his lips. The cold metal of his ring presses into your skin when he cups your other breast, thumb circling just right.

“Gonna make you forget his name,” he murmurs, voice low and vicious. “Only one you’ll remember is mine.”

When he slides two thick fingers inside you, you cry out his name—broken and breathless. He smiles, darkly satisfied.

“That’s it, doll. Breathe for me. Good girl.”

By the time he’s pushing into you—slow, deep, stretching you around him—your nails are clawing the sheets. Every inch of him feels like fire, like home, like everything you’d been missing without realizing it.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

“I know, baby. He couldn’t fuck you like this, could he? Didn’t know how to take care of you.” His pace quickens, hips snapping forward until you’re seeing stars. “But I do.”

He drives into you, brutal and precise, one hand tangled in your hair to keep your head tipped back. Every thrust punches a moan from your throat, every growl against your ear makes you clench tighter around him.

Then—somewhere between the sound of skin and breath and the word mine whispered like a prayer—the door creaks open.

Bucky hears it before you do.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter—he just looks over his shoulder and meets the wide, horrified eyes of your ex-boyfriend standing frozen in the doorway.

Bucky’s lips curl into a cold smile.

He pulls you tighter against him, voice dropping to a low, possessive snarl meant for the audience. “She’s fuckin’ mine now,” he says, loud enough to echo.

Your ex makes a strangled noise—half gasp, half humiliation—and backs out immediately, door slamming shut behind him.

You don’t even notice. Too far gone. Too wrapped up in the way Bucky grinds deeper, muttering filth against your ear.

“Don’t stop, baby. Don’t even think about him. You hear me? You’re with me now.”

“Bucky—oh god—”

“That’s it,” he breathes, biting down on your shoulder as he thrusts harder, faster. “Say my fuckin’ name while I make you come.”

You do. Over and over.

When the pleasure hits, it’s violent. Your body arches, pulse shattering as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release. His hand slips to your throat—not enough to hurt, just to hold you there, to claim you while he spills inside, groaning your name like a vow.

The room smells like sex and victory.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing. His weight presses against you, solid and real. His lips brush your temple, softer now.

“You okay, doll?” he murmurs.

You nod weakly, still trembling. “Yeah. I—yeah.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Good. ’Cause that was the last time you cry over him, understand? He doesn’t exist anymore. You’re mine.”

It should sound possessive. Dangerous. But coming from Bucky—rough voice gone quiet, hands gentle again—it feels like safety.

He cleans you up, tucks you against his chest, thumb stroking lazy circles along your hip. You’re half-asleep when he whispers against your hair:

“Should’ve been me all along.”

And when you wake the next morning—sore, marked, but smiling—you realize it is him now.

The man who ruined your ex, your bed, your past—then kissed your forehead like it meant something.

Mobster or not, Bucky Barnes was built to protect what he claimed.

The weekend marked a rare moment of pure joy for Yn. As she opened the door to her home, her heart soared with disbelief and delight. There, standing in her living room, were her beloved nephews, Leo and Liam, their small faces lighting up with smiles that could melt even the hardest of hearts. Joyce, standing beside them, wore a beaming smile of her own.

Yn was overwhelmed, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears of happiness. She knelt down to greet the boys, who rushed into her arms with unbridled enthusiasm. “I missed you so much!” Yn said, her voice thick with emotion as she hugged them tightly. The warmth of their tiny bodies pressed against her made her feel whole again.

Bucky, who had come along to support Yn, watched from a little distance. He had always admired her deep love for her family, and seeing her so blissful with her nephews was a sight he cherished. The way her face lit up with genuine joy, the way she effortlessly shifted into an adoring aunt, it was a beautiful reminder of why he loved her so much.

The day was spent with laughter and fun. Yn took the boys to the park, pushing them on swings and joining them in playful games. Bucky was content to follow along, observing from the sidelines but actively participating when needed. He loved seeing Yn in her element, her laughter echoing with the same enthusiasm as the boys’.

As the afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky, the boys’ boundless energy showed no signs of waning. At one point, Leo and Liam, sitting on a picnic blanket with crayons in hand, turned their curious eyes to Bucky, who was sitting nearby, sharing a moment with Yn.

“Is Uncle Bucky our uncle too?” Leo asked innocently, his small voice carrying the pure curiosity of childhood.

Bucky felt a rush of warmth flood through him at the question. He looked at Yn, whose eyes met his with a glint of shared understanding and happiness. He then turned his attention back to the boys, a wide smile spreading across his face.

“Yes, I am,” Bucky replied, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “I’m Uncle Bucky, 100 percent.”

The boys cheered with excitement, their joy evident as they clambered over to Bucky, eager for his attention. Bucky scooped them up with a gentle laugh, hugging them close. For a moment, he felt a deep, profound sense of belonging. It was as if he had found a piece of himself in this new dynamic, one that he hadn’t fully realized he was missing until now.

Yn watched Bucky with a heart full of love. Seeing him interact with her nephews, seeing the genuine affection and joy they both shared, it was a moment she knew would forever be etched in her heart. It was a glimpse of a future she had always hoped for, one where Bucky and her family were intertwined, creating new memories together.

As the day drew to a close and the boys reluctantly said their goodbyes, Yn felt a pang of sadness but also a deep satisfaction. Bucky, too, was touched by the experience. The bond he witnessed between Yn and her family made him more determined than ever to build a future with her, a future where moments like these were not just rare occurrences but a part of their everyday lives.

You giggled into his mouth for the third time in a row.

Bucky's hands were holding your face to his tenderly, unwilling to release your lips from his kiss. He had an incredibly important meeting tonight during your shift at the club, which would cause him to miss your stage time. It was the first time since you'd gotten together, and he was not dealing well with it. You playfully pushed against his rock hard abs in another attempt at freedom- he'd held you captive in his arms for going on ten minutes now- but that only made him growl at you and tighten his grip. You giggled again and jerked your head backwards.

"BUCKY," you gasped, finally able to breathe through your mouth. His answering grunt reverberated on the underside of your jaw, where he'd instantly relocated his lips after you "so rudely" (in his mind anyways) pulled away. Your knees nearly buckled as he hit that sweet spot along the column of your throat, but you had to remain strong. "You are going to be late."

"I'm the boss. They can wait," he murmured, continuing the exploration of your neck with his lips.

"You told me that this was the only time the others could meet, so you have to go with their schedule."

"I'm still the boss."

"I'm NOT the boss, though, and I can't be late either."

"I own your boss. You can be late."

"Oh, I think Natasha might heartily disagree with you there, and NO, I can't."

When he heard those words, Bucky finally straightened up and looked you dead in the eye. "You wanna bet?" he said, his voice taking on that dominant tone that turned your insides to water. He cocked one eyebrow at you with that dangerous look that you knew better than to question.

It had been a blissful two months. Bucky was charming, sweet, wickedly funny, and it was obvious that he adored you. But in the quiet moments, his dark and feral side came out. And the quiet moments ranged from any time he noticed you were thinking poorly of yourself to anytime you got too sassy. Then he got quiet. And you were in trouble.

You had gone into this relationship knowing that he was a Dom, and once you had both discussed your limits, needs, and desires, this man fucking delivered. You had been fucked in every conceivable position and location, and been worshipped in those ways as well. He was utterly devoted to you. But he was quick to snap you back in line when you needed it. You'd always been a bit of a pain puppy, so anytime he had spanked you for your own good it had always felt so right. So right that someone loved you enough to correct you, discipline you, and help you with that glorious mix of pain and pleasure. It was the best of both worlds.

Not to mention the orgasms afterwards had always sent you over the moon.

He wasn't overtly controlling, but you had learned that a cocked eyebrow in your direction meant you were dangerously close to doing or saying something that he didn't like, and unless you were gunning for a sore ass you'd better back off. Not that you necessarily minded the sore ass- but it was a metaphorical pain in the ass to try to mask a burning backside when you were a freaking exotic dancer.

"I'm sorry," you said, tilting your head contritely and looking up at him with your best puppy dog eyes.

"Sorry what?" he replied, his eyes darkening with lust.

"Sorry, Sir."

"That's better," he growled low, before pulling you in for a kiss again. You surrendered, knowing that he was going to dig his heels in now. It wasn't that Bucky Barnes didn't go down without a fight. The man simply did not go down when it came to the fight. Besides, kissing Bucky was one of the best things in life, so...why were you arguing with him again?

Finally, when HE decided it was enough, Bucky released your lips with a sigh, then gently touched foreheads with you. "I'm sorry about this, Angel."

"Bucky, it's okay, I promise," you said in that soothing tone that usually made the stress crinkles in his eyes go away. "You've seen me dance every shift for the last two months. One night off isn't going to kill us." You gently ran your fingers along his smooth cheek. He'd shaved for this meeting- you knew this meant it was important. Even though he refused to tell you anything about his...job...he had told you that this was a huge, not-to-be-missed deal.

"Yeah, but...." he said, your big scary mob boss melting into an adorable pouting puppy of a man. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too, but it will be okay."

"I...I don't like being away from you."

"You've been away from me maybe a grand total of 3 hours in the past two months. How do you even know you don't like being away from me?"

"Because every single one of those seconds I was away from you burned a hole in my chest." You melted on the spot. The way he could sweep you off your feet with his words was unparalleled. "I don't wanna miss anything. I want every second of you I can get."

"Well, come over to my place the second your meeting is done, and make me forget we were every apart," you said coyly, giving him your best shit-eating grin. He rolled his eyes, grinning in response.

"Ha ha, very funny," he drolled. "I'll have Clint pick you up after your shift and take you to the house."

You took a deep breath. Here goes. "Well, about that..." you bit your lip and looked away, just knowing that he was cocking his eyebrow at you. "I was thinking that maybe I could go back to my apartment tonight, and that you could come over to my place instead?"

"No."

Not even a moment of thought. You weren't surprised, but you had held the tiniest bit of hope. And it made you a little mad. "But Bucky..."

"I said no."

You looked up into his face. His don't-fuck-with-me-I-am-made-of-steel mask was firmly fixed on his face. You took a breath, then adopted your own no-nonsense look. "Baby, I've been paying for that place for the past two months and I've barely been in it for more than an hour in that entire time."

"This is supposed to sway me to your side? What have I been telling you about moving in with me?"

"I know, I know, but...I just need a little more time."

"Time for what?!"

You sighed, your shoulders slumping. "Can we please not do this now?" you asked quietly.

Bucky gritted his teeth and dropped his hands, flexing them in irritation as he took a step back. He took a breath of his own, before replying in a tightly controlled voice. "Fine, we won't do this now. But you know this isn't the end of it."

"I know, and....just....we'll get there, okay?" His ice blue eyes snapped to yours, making you rearrange your words instantly. "Sorry...I'LL get there. Sorry, Daddy." At that, his face relaxed a bit. "But...maybe if I go to my place tonight and then YOU come over....well, it might be the push that I need to..." you dropped off, still blushing at the thought of moving in with him. And Bucky sensed it immediately. He stepped right back towards you, his hands back on either side of your face.

"To...?" he prompted, willing you to say it. You sighed and smiled.

"To...be okay with what I already know I'm going to do," you whispered shyly. You fooled yourself into believing you didn't know why you were so nervous about this. This man had tied you up, splayed you open, and had his feral way with you more times than you could remember, but for some reason, this was what still brought the blush to your cheeks. The other memories brought the blush to other places.

If you were being honest, you knew exactly why you were so nervous. The feelings that you had for Bucky were so deep and intense, it stole your breath every time you thought about them. Being away from him was torture. It felt like the blood in your veins ran with shattered glass when he wasn't near. You needed him. Desperately. And to have that kind of intensity was overwhelming and overstimulating. But you would rather go through all of it than spend a moment without him.

In response to what he saw in your eyes, Bucky fervently pressed his lips to yours again- demanding, begging, worshipping. You placed your hands on top of his as you moaned into his kiss. Finally, he let you up for air again. "Now that's worth you going back to that...." He stopped as you pursed your lips at him in consternation. "....that PLACE of yours," he finished gallantly, both of you aware that he'd really wanted to call it that 'dump' of yours. "Clint will still pick you up and escort you to your apartment."

"That's not necessary," you said quickly, still feeling like an imposition every time he did this. "I used to walk home from the club alone all the time. It's only like 15 blocks, I'll be fine."

The steel mask slipped back in place. "That's not an option," he said in his dominant tone. "You WILL be escorted back to your place so I know that you're safe. Don't toy with me on this."

"Yes, Sir," you whispered, slinking your arms around his waist and burying your face in his chest to hide your feelings of guilt at both making him mad and putting Clint out from doing something probably more important, as well as the joy of his need to protect you. He sighed and wrapped his arms around you, laying his cheek on top of your head. His metal fingers gently drew lines up and down your back.

"Baby, I need to know you're safe," he said in a surprisingly husky tone, like his throat was closing. "I can't handle it if I don't know you're safe. Please don't ask that of me."

"Okay, Daddy, I'll go with Clint," you said, leaning back and looking at him full in the eye so he knew you were serious. "I'll be good, I promise." The tight eye crinkles disappeared, making your smile even bigger.

"Thank you, Angel," he said softly, before giving you one last kiss. "Now go kick some ass on that stage tonight."

"I will. You go kick ass at....whatever it is you're meeting about. What was it again?"

"Lame attempt. You know I'm not telling you."

You giggled again and shrugged playfully, making him laugh.

*****************************************************

You were trying to wait patiently in the dressing room. It was three hours past the end of your shift, and Clint still hadn't shown up yet. Bucky had arranged for Clint to pick you up at the back entrance where you usually exited, but there was no point in waiting outside until he got there. Besides, Bucky would probably pitch a fit at you being outside and alone, and you really didn't want to piss him off. Not when you were both this close to the next step in your relationship.

You shivered in delight, examining the way your eyes lit up in the mirror at the thought of moving in with him. Some part of you screamed that it was too soon- probably the part of you that was still wired with the super conservative only-child mindset you'd been raised with. But the greater part of you knew that you loved this man with a passion that you'd never believed was actually possible. He was your drug. And you were hooked for life, no going back. You weren't sure how long he was going to feel this way about you, so you had to make the most of every moment that you were given. Carpe Diem.

Your phone suddenly gave a short vibration, letting you know you had a text. Your body was suddenly flush with feeling when you realized it was from Bucky. What kind of hold did this man have on you, that just getting a text from him made you feel this way?

Much to your disappointment, however, it was incredibly brief. "Clint late" were the only two words he'd written. That was it? Three hours late and he was telling you something you already knew? You shut your eyes, trying to remember that he was in an important meeting and that he probably couldn't text more than that. You tried to remember to be grateful that he had told you himself instead of sending one of his men to do it. And who the FUCK had that many men at his beck and call all the time anyway?! Just what exactly- NOPE.

You stopped that line of thought in its tracks. You knew who he was. You knew...sort of...what he did. He kept things from you to protect you, and probably to protect his business too. He was a master at operating from the shadows, and he wasn't going to throw away his entire life's work just because he was fucking you. You probably didn't want to be in on the day-to-day of his empire anyways...right?

You sighed heavily, and text back "Ok" followed by a sparkly heart emoji. He knew you hated waiting- and had used that to his wicked advantage a couple times. You chewed on your lip in thought. So if Clint was late, what did that mean? Probably that he wasn't going to be coming at all. So then who WAS coming? Steve was with Bucky, as was Sam, one of his...what was that word?....caporegimes, that's right. You brushed aside the annoyance that those two, along with Clint and Natasha, were the only 2 employees that you knew who worked directly with him. Why didn't he trust you to meet more of his family? Why...no, STOP.

You didn't want to bother Natasha. She'd been on edge all night, clearly in on whatever the deal was, but needing to stay on the premises to keep up appearances. Gamora wasn't working tonight, and you had kept your distance from the others, afraid that you'd accidentally reveal your relationship with Bucky. There was no way in hell you'd ask Nebula to walk home with you- she managed to make you feel her icy sneer from all the way across the floor tonight after her set. Ugh. Fury needed to stay on the premises, Rhodey was still on mic for the next two hours, and little Sprite...well, you still weren't even sure how Sprite was old enough to work here, so that was out. You couldn't bring yourself to spend money on a cab or an Uber for 15 blocks. Besides, Bucky wouldn't be happy if you told him you got in a car with a driver that he hadn't personally selected. Screw it. You were walking. You needed the time to yourself, anyways.

You quietly slipped out the back, so as not to attract attention. You gripped your keys in one hand and your pepper spray in the other. You knew how to take care of yourself in this city. It was fine. You were fine.

You let your mind wander a bit as you walked, wondering what Bucky would think of your apartment when he actually saw it. Then as your mind started drifting to all the surfaces in your apartment that the two of you could christen, you heard a small scuffle. Instantly on alert, you felt the tension and heightened adrenaline flood your system. Chances were it was a mouse or a leaf, but you wouldn't take any chances. You let your ears do the listening. And they told you that there was someone walking along the street behind you, quite a bit away, but still there.

You forced yourself to take a deep breath. This was New York City. People walked everywhere. It wasn't like you had a claim on the sidewalk. You kept your pace the same and your posture neutral, getting a grip on the fear before it turned into something that it wasn't. You listened carefully as the footsteps didn't increase in speed, but they got closer. The person clearly had long legs and was taking longer strides than you.

"Hey sugar."

The voice from behind you scared you, calling out like that from a distance. You clenched your muscles, determined not to answer or show fear. You picked up your pace ever so slightly...and so did the footsteps.

You willed yourself to stay calm, taking a deep breath. And that's when you suddenly realized that you didn't hear anything behind you anymore.

Before you could stop to think about the wisdom of your actions, you whipped around. The street was empty. No one was there. Your wide eyes scanned the area, but you saw nothing save the garbage blowing in the wind, the small alley that you'd passed ten seconds ago, and the reflected glow of the neon signs propped up in a few windows. You took a step forwards before you realized how insane of an idea that was. You turned back around the direction you had been going and power walked the rest of the way home with no further incidents. It had probably been your overactive imagination- that guy could have been calling out to anyone, and he'd clearly found them. He wasn't pursuing you.

When you'd finally gotten to your apartment, locking and bolting the door behind you, you released a long, shaky sigh. You decided to hop into the shower, letting the heat and steam soothe your nerves. You convinced yourself more and more that you had overreacted as the hot water did its magic. As you dried off and put on a pair of cotton shorts and a teeshirt, it suddenly occurred to you that you should text Bucky and let him know you'd gotten home safely. You bit your lip, knowing that he'd be irritated that you walked home AND that you'd been fine, ultimately. He didn't need to know about your overactive imagination. A devious smile crossed your face. Maybe he'd punish you for your naughty behavior...

Just as you were picking up your phone to text him, a loud and sudden BANG in the hallway outside your apartment scared the shit out of you. "ANGEL!" a voice bellowed from the hallway, followed by three more earth-shaking thumps on your door. You knew that voice...and the sound of a metal hand pounding on wood.

Still catching the breath that had been knocked out of you, you rushed to the door, quickly unbolting and unlocking it before he broke it down. The second you twisted the knob, Bucky came barreling into the room, absolutely seething.

"Why the FUCK didn't you stay at the club?" he roared at you. His normally handsome features were twisted with rage. It scared you so badly, seeing him like this, that you were completely frozen in place. Bucky took that opportunity to get right into your personal space, placing his hands on either side of your face, gripping it so tightly it ached. "What the FUCK were you thinking?" he hissed, before kissing you with a fury that knocked the rest of the wind out of you. He kept his lips pressed so painfully to yours that you found yourself gripping at his wrists, trying to pull his hands away to give you some relief. He wasn't having it though. He kept your lips locked until he was damn well ready to release you, pouring his anger and fear and terror and frustrations into that kiss. He backed you up against a wall, keeping you pinned in place until he had to release to you to take a breath.

He leaned right down, his icy blue eyes locking on yours. "You ain't gonna be able to sit down for a WEEK after I'm through with you," he growled. He suddenly dropped his hands and pushed himself away from the wall, turning away from you and breathing heavily as he tried to get a hold of himself.

"And hi to you too," you said after you regained enough breath to speak, attempting a bit of levity to break the tension.

Wrong move.

Bucky whipped around so fast you almost missed it. "Don't you try getting cute on me now, it's not gonna save your ass," he hissed, before running his hands over his head, trying to dump the excessive furious energy he felt. "Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?"

Actually, yes you did, but that was definitely not going to calm him down. "Bucky, I'm fine," you said, adopting that soothing tone of voice that usually worked when he was angry. Hopefully it would work now. "I made it home just fine, just like I used to. It's okay."

"I TOLD you Clint was running late, why didn't you stay put?"

"You told me he was late three hours after he was supposed to show!"

"I text you the second I found out, ten minutes before the end of your shift."

"Well, it didn't pop up until three hours later. I don't know what happened. I was trying to wait, but I thought that you all had just gotten caught up in your meeting and you finally confirming that he was late was you saying that he wasn't actually coming."

"How the FUCK did you get to that conclusion?!"

"It was three hours after he was supposed to pick me up! What the hell else was I supposed to think?"

"You watch your tone, little girl. I'm pissed as hell and you don't wanna make this worse on yourself. I told you I couldn't handle knowing if you weren't safe. And then you pulled this stunt." He stepped back, gesturing to his entire self. "Well, here ya go. I can't handle it. And I'm not used to feeling like this. You've completely unhinged me all because you couldn't be bothered to keep yourself safe like I asked you to. And I'm furious and relieved and angry and scared and I can't figure out if I want to bend you over the edge of your bed to spank the shit out of you or lose myself in you because I am so goddamn relieved that you are okay." He finally spluttered to a halt, having lanced the boil of his feelings. That's when you noticed his blue eyes were wet.

Bucky never cried.

You stepped carefully to him, and when he didn't react angrily, you bolted into his arms, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in his chest. "I'm so sorry, Bucky, I didn't mean to cause you that much worry. I really didn't, I swear. Please believe me."

His arms were already around you as he sighed heavily, squeezing you even tighter. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he said begrudgingly. You couldn't help but giggle at the pouting tone in his voice. "I do believe you, Angel. You're still in trouble, but I believe you."

"Thank you, Daddy."

"But for fuck's sake, can you please just stay put next time?" Bucky released his tight grip and leaned away to see your face. You were relieved to see the tiny twinkle in his eye. "No, fuck it. There won't be a next time. I'm not letting you out of my sight again. I'm having you surgically attached to me tomorrow."

"And I suppose I have no say in this?"

"None."

"Well, that's going to make my job interesting. How do you feel about stripping?"

"....you're going to need to find a new job."

"Okay, NOW you're going too far."

Bucky finally laughed, and the air released around you both as you snuggled into each other. He sighed again, but this time it was full of relief. "When I think of what could have happened to you on that street..."

The footsteps from the alley suddenly sounded in your ears, and the fear that you had felt came rushing back. You jerked back, looking him full in the face. "What do you mean?" you asked cautiously.

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" he asked, his eyebrows wrinkling. "It's New York City. It's late. You're walking out of an exotic dance hall. Anything could have happened to you."

"Yeah, but..." you trailed off.

His eyes narrowed. "But what?" he asked. You bit your lip. If you told him what happened, you wouldn't be surprised if he followed through on his threat to make you two conjoined twins while you were sleeping. And whereas you loved the heart behind his worries, you absolutely did not want to make him worry or get upset again. Besides, you had just been overreacting. Nothing had happened. You were fine. Just an overactive imagination.

"But nothing," you said. "I'm sorry I made you worry about my safety."

His eyes took on that feral glint that immediately sent shivers down your spine. "Sorry ain't gonna cut it, little girl," he growled with a wicked smile. He put his metal finger under your chin and tilted your head up. "I believe someone needs to be punished."