Bucky Barnes, New York’s Mafia Boss, is livid. Why wouldn’t he be when you, his wife, is perched on the bathroom counter with him between your thighs, meticulously cleaning up the lacerates and bruises painting your porcelain-like skin.

Although the espousal was arranged, he can’t help the fact he’s gradually falling in love with you.

His vibranium hand resides on your thigh, tracing soothing circles into your skin as he dabs an antiseptic wipe over a cut, making you tense momentarily.

Bucky glances at you, still thinking you appear pulchritudinous despite being injured, before he focuses back onto his task, “You wanna tell me what happened, dollface, hm?” Bucky asks, attempting to keep is tone steady for your sake.

He’s ready to dispose of anybody who hurt you with his own bare hands.