#Same

#Same

They do be fixing that boat

Omg this was so amazing! I freakin' loved that conversation between reader and Steve. Like it is so well written, I could feel the tension. And that snarky business talk was so good. You have such a way with words that it is kind of poetic but not too confusing that makes it difficult to focus on the conversation.

I would definitely love to see more of this AU!

Thank you so much for writing! 💙😊

collateral

18+

With ulterior motives, Steve tries to recruit your help. Unsuccessfully.

warnings: course language. Alcohol consumption. Mob!Steve x CEO!fem reader. Stubbornness and some misunderstandings. Mob!Bucky.

authors note: this is sort of a prelude to minutia and there’ll be a series of moments shared between these two. So to start off, here’s a bit of their origin story. Requests are open for this specific AU! So send me any mob!steve thots :)

This was not beta’d- so any mistakes are my own undoing

There’s a two wall divide. On the discreet end, there are broad, gangly men in black coats, watchful and knowing of their place. Whereas you came up on your own, narrowly fixated on your phone and the countless emails that didn’t seize to exist.

“We want to start up another club,” Bucky Barnes leans over to coaster his drink after taking a large, spiteful sip.

He sits across from you, briefly pinched by the taste of aged whisky that’s tinged with chardonnay. He’s careful, enacting his boss’s below the belt orders as you’re docile in presence. It’s no surprise that Steve was running late on business. But altruistically, first impressions weren’t collegial for these men. They came as they pleased and you had to see for it.

“I see.” You barely resort to a hum, displeased by the forded build up and tactless engagement.

“Somewhere profitable and rundown. Not in Manhattan this time. The owners that run the strip are absolute dog shit.” He pauses, a prosthetic hand flexing open and shut before forming a fist. “I trust there’s room in market shares?”

After composing a strongly worded text, the phone slips out of your hands and into your purse lining. You exhale loudly, exasperated almost.

“If that’s the case then you should try for a private loan. Not lure a sole venture capitalist to an upscale cabaret.” Your eyes meet in the shrouded confines. There’s an edge to your baron demeanor.

“Fuck right…” Bucky scoffs. His entourage of men shake their heads, each galvanizing the other. “Do you know who your father is?” He quips, cocking his head to the side.

“Must I be reminded?”

Your father was a ransacking goon, a business tycoon whose work ethic you (thankfully) did not inherit. Your moral code was far more intuitive, just like your mother who was an equanimous school teacher. Through the kaleidoscopic dangers, she shielded you from your father’s casting shadow up until her untimely death. But when the money bough breaks unwanted acquaintances become a sullen reunion. That’s how you made amends with your father, through shared proprietorship and vendetta.

It’s fucked.

Now you’re consistently cawing under his surveillance, dealing with his men who would turn to you for money. A strategic plan or two. A few niceties and an alibi.

“I wouldn’t think so.” He makes a triumphant face.

You despised James Buchanan Barnes. For a convicted mercenary, he had all the forthrightness of a devoid, plucky bastard. He’s your fathers go to man, often heedful of any and all transatlantic drug laundering while remitted as a notorious under lord. That part of him was kept away from you. Your play was to look ahead and not overuse your tendencies to question everything.

“Why am I here?” You grit out the unsavory infliction, reaching your wits end.

“Because I asked for you.” A deep voice emerged from the smoky shadows. Heads turn, bass boosted sounds of the club flits through before the metal clamps door shuts again, silencing the beast.

“There he is.” Bucky harps as he rocks himself up from his seat. You’re unequivocally annoyed. If looks could kill. “Steve.”

Soon your eyes cut to a Greek god who might’ve called down Adonis himself with his unshorn dirty blonde hair and contrasting dark wooly beard. Through the cascading abyss there’s a sense of virility. It’s a known matter of fact that mob men were their own genome and species. Learning their violent equanimity has been your strong suite by far. Yet when Steve Rogers appears, you’re unsure of yourself.

“She’s all yours, boss.” Bucky meagers with cardinal level solitude as you’re seated from across the exhibition, legs crossed over the knee, back straightened.

“Thanks Buck.” Steve exhales. He’s wind-chapped from his travels but doesn’t shorthand anyone with his marveling beauty. You’re struck by it, blithe and drawn.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet in person Ms. Y/L/N.” He announces from across the annex. Your eyes barely meet as he goes to undo the cuffed sleeves. “Have you been cared for?”

When he glances up at you he stares, slowing his motions like a perfectly stunned time lapse. For some reason Steve hadn’t imagined you like this. Doe eyed and beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

“I offered.” Bucky reveries. Steve finally turns away and gives him a highbrow look, unconvinced. “You really can’t unwind this one.”

“‘This one’ is good, thanks.” You mockingly object.

A common rule when dealing with prolific mob members is that nothing touches your lips. No alcohol, cigars, blunts, food or water. Even breathing in the same air as these men was volatile enough to consider.

“One drink. On me.”

Preemptive to your cause, Steve constitutes his right to be cordial with guests. Especially those who impose sanctions and give him a hard time at it. You were certainly not a woman after his heart.

“No.” You’re firm and it echoes.

Following the impactful silence, he lets out a lofty sigh. A few of his men step out given the recuperative signal. There’s a dangerous shift in dynamic and that’s when your sense of fight or flight kicked in.

“I need your trust, sweetheart.” Steve incites from the minibar. He rubs a hand over his mouth, looking over his poison before plucking a jarred whisky decanter off the half table, earnest on pouring himself a two shot, irregardless of your advances.

“I don’t know you.” You deadpan. The less you felt inclined the more he wanted from you. Correction, he wanted you. Just you.

“On the contrary.” He brings the glass up to his lips and takes a long sip for taste. “I’m indebted to you.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily drink to that.” You trail off.

Maybe it’s wrong of you to ogle but the way his furry forearms flexed and his Adam’s apple bobbed, you couldn’t help yourself. Steve Rogers was every woman's man. Handsome, domineering, a crier for trouble and not to mention, all the tell tale impassive sex.

But to favor them all, he was one of the most notoriously eligible bachelors in New York. To seem remotely uninterested would be a bold face to put on yet here you were, trying.

“Every night is a communion and I would’ve offered you the best. My best.” He ordains his truce, pointing to his finest selections of whiskeys and wines.

“You know a phone call would have perfectly sufficed.” You proclaim the second he hastily polishes off his drink, bowing his head to ease and hold the burn.

“And not have you where I want you to be?” He cautions, looking at you for another lifetime. You felt naked under his soldering gaze. Everything becomes rhetorical and it drives you nearly insane. He shakes his head. “Impossible.”

“I can’t get involved with another club.” You insist, tired of his mosey run ins and the falsified NYPD write ups you've done in the past. Steve chuckles under his breath, fascinated by the rattling ice pellets in his drink.

“That’s fine. I wasn’t going to sign off on it anyways.” He says into his hollow cup, taking in a few chips to soothe the ache in his jaw after getting roughed up in a previous ordeal.

“You’re fucking with me?” Bucky chirps, half amused, half done. He stands guard at the opposite end of the room, arms folded across his chest.

“So then what?” You cut through the commiseration.

Steve slowly shifts his jaw side to side, hearing the clicks that he’d deliberately choose to ignore. “Well your father thinks—“

“Fuck what my father thinks.” You snap, voice cracking an octave.

“We’ll get there if you hear me out.” He advises, refilling his glass to the brim this time. Maybe another drink could fully numb his senses because he certainly needed it around you.

“I’m not having my hand in what he thinks or wants. You got it?”

“Feisty little thing aren’t you?” He purls with observation.

“I don’t oversee gang activity, Steven. I am not my father’s daughter.” You adjourn. The club starts playing a different tune and so does Steve.

“Scared? Too good to be bad?” He strolls over and seats himself right in front of you. His arms resting atop the battered couch, long legs spread wide open. You ground your teeth together, breathing hard through your nose. “Because that’s a sorry excuse and I know what you’re capable of.”

“The risk to reward ratio is unmatched, immoral actually.”

“Oh don’t tell me that.” He patronizes you, slightly jilted.

“I worked long and hard to get where I am today, that too without your help.” You mutter the last bit but he hears it loud and clear.

“Not hard enough.” He quips, raising his brows.

“That’s not for you to pass judgment on.”

“Fair.” He reports, face changing and emoting piddly concern. “How is your father doing by the way?”

“I don't know, why don’t you ask him yourself.”

“Eh, we’re not really on speaking terms.” He clucks. “Seeing as I told him that I wanted to buy you out.”

“Excuse me?”

“Work for me.” He oversimplifies, jaded as can be.

“Doing what exactly?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing you haven’t done before… entirely.” Steve fibs. Your eyes widen for half a millisecond and then narrow again.

“But there’s a catch.” You sound resoundingly dull.

“My accounts have been compromised.” He explains, denoting the fact that there’s more. There’s always something more.

“I wasn’t aware of this.”

“Oh good, neither was Horacio.” Steve addles, his countenance becomes bleak.

“Wait, what happened to Horacio?” Horacio Edwards, the chartered accountant who’s worked for the Rogers dynasty since the beginning of time. The skittish Spaniard was practically family. His loss now came unannounced.

“He’s under a bridge.” Steve says. You’re alarmed, back stiffening as a chill curled down your spine.

“Brooklyn.” Bucky confirms.

“Point is Y/N, I can trust you. You’ve been my girl through and through again.”

“Unwillingly so.”

“And look where that’s gotten us.” Steve exclaims, hands spread apart, alluding to all the times you’ve curtailed his financial expenses and some. “I don’t expect you to turn on me.”

“What if I do.”

“You won’t.” He growls, irises dark as the night.

“And what’s my out?”

“There is no out.”

“I believe in my sovereignty, Rogers. Try again.”

There’s a flight of amusement that crosses his features as he curtly chuckles. He’s unbothered, so much so that it claws at your conscience.

“Summer of ‘03, peak inflation, you had a transactional affair with a Saudi prince, care to explain that?”

“No.”

“Coy.” He’s monosyllabic and daft, clearing his throat to further enchant orders. “Well here’s the thing, I need your help in systematically wiping out some petty funds along with forging documents and seizing any endorsements that come in. Essentially, you’d be my buffer, unsuspecting at that.”

“No, I'd be your scapegoat.” Steve bites down on his bottom lip, chagrined in thought. “I know how this all works."

“You really don’t, sweetheart.” Bucky chortles, a Quasimodo at beck and call.

“I don’t?” You rebut. Steve grimaces, the blues in his eyes turn to you, carefully studying your plight and panic. “What’s going on, Rogers?”

“Here we go.”

“There’s an unending bounty on my head.” Steve casually intercepts Bucky’s senile ability to bitch and moan.

“So you’re scared then?” You gawk, turning his own charm against him.

“I’m being cautious.” He asserts, watchful of your every move.

“That’s not it.” You snicker, quickly gathering your stuff. “You think I’m safe, someone you can run to and honor. But I’m not one for the fake brotherhood shit. I’m not going down with you.”

“Don’t be such a fucking hardass, Y/L/N.” Bucky booms, his annoyance tipping over from the way he stood.

“You're one to talk, Sarge.” You sardonically mention.

“This isn’t a contractual agreement. Your say matters here.” Steve's composure changes the second you get up from your seat. His eyes draw your shapely figure as you shake your head. “And I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. That’s a promise.”

“Yeah right, you’re a terrible liar and I’m a fucking idiot for coming this far. We’re done here.”

“Very well.” He murmurs a dangerous threat, his gaze fixated on you. “Buck, can you make sure she—“

“I’ll see myself out. Thanks.” You salute already partway out the door from being yanked back into the room. Steve leans back in the settee and cracks his neck as a sign of frustration.

“She’s going to be the death of me.” He mutters in tune, scrolling through his phone to mark another day and then checks the live club surveillance.

“You and I, boss man. You and I.”

“She’s approaching the west wing exit.”

“I’m on it.” Bucky doesn’t confirm another word as he stalks out of the room.

🌃

The polarizing atmosphere of clubgoers and bright strobe lights swallows you a whole. Slipping past the sweaty hoards of people, you narrowly manage to escape the scene after being dead-ended. Twice.

“He doesn’t like being told no. Y’know that?” Bucky strays right in your ear. You were already approaching a fire exit when he swooped right in with the final jab.

You suck in a deep breath, tolling your patience before uttering another word. “Look, I know that you’re his second in command so you only ever have his best interests in mind. But I can’t be any more involved than I am now.”

“I get that.” Bucky nods. You give him an uneasy look as he steps in front of you and uses his prosthetic arm to push open the vault door. He forces a tyrannical little grin. “You don’t want to fully bite off the hand that fed you.”

“Wouldn’t that be a predicament.” You harp on as the dark haired mogul glowers.

“Excuse me.” You slink past him and through the back entranceway.

Welcomed by Gotham, a steady draft breezes between the both of you. Unrelenting, Bucky matches your quick strides as you clobber down the side streets, completely engrossed on getting home.

“Well, I’m not one to convince you of anything.” He whistles, promptly hailing a yellow crown cab to halt right at your feet.

“Good.” You retort, fully taking him in.

“Where to ma’am?” The cabbie distantly carols, window rolled down and body distended over the vinyl seating.

“Broadview and 5th.” Bucky answers for you, baneful as he reaches over and opens the car door. He wordlessly acknowledges your apprehension with valour.

“Fix your face.” You remark when he breaks character and smirks like a madman.

“I hope I see you around pip.” He finally resigns with a childhood nickname that’s stuck since the first meeting.

“Goodnight James.”

Steve ‘did it hurt - a little’ Rogers

Can we all take a moment to appreciate how well acted the argument scene between Marc and Steven was? It perfectly captured Marc's exasperation and rising chaos in Steven when he is experiencing how it feels to be trapped inside. Oscar Isaac is killing it. The way Oscar acts feels so raw.

“This was the most physically taxing of all the film because of the lightsaber duels. Everytime I wasn’t shooting, I was rehearsing. Something that took weeks and weeks to shoot, even though it only lasts a few minutes on film. So it taxed me to the limit.”

MARK HAMILL “Star Wars: Episode V - The Empire Strikes Back” BTS › 1980