tenaciousnerdbucket

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

Disobedience

Chapter 2 of the 18+ MDNI Bucky Barnes x You Mafia AU series.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x You (female, curvy)

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: You left the penthouse without permission. You're punished, not with pain, but with uncontrolled pleasure.

Trigger Warnings: dub-con; orgasm denial; overstimulation; (unprotected) P-in-V sex; tied down

Author’s Note: This is Chapter 2 of my Bucky Barnes Mafia AU series. It is essentially smut wrapped in emotional slow burn.

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

⚠ PLEASE read the trigger warnings before beginning ⚠

You weren’t supposed to leave your room.

The instructions had been clear: stay on the top floor, eat what’s brought to you, be available when he wants you. You had broken none of those rules… until now.

The private elevator was slow, quiet, and completely unattended. You told yourself it wasn’t a real escape. Just a look around for some air. The second floor looked like a gallery, black-and-white photographs of old New York, clean lines, wide hallways, minimalist decor. Not a guard in sight. It felt empty. 

It felt free.

You made it halfway down the hallway before you heard the elevator doors slide open behind you.

“Turn around.”

You froze, breath caught mid-throat. Slowly, you turned.

James stepped out of the elevator, hands in his pockets. Black shirt rolled to the elbows, chest stretching the fabric, jaw tight. He didn’t look angry. He looked blank. Which, you were learning, was worse.

He walked toward you slowly, silently. Just measured steps on marble floors, until he stood toe to toe with you in the silence.

“You didn’t have permission to leave,” he said, voice low and calm.

“I wasn’t—wasn’t trying to run,” you said quickly. “I just needed—”

“You disobeyed.”

“I never left the building,” you whispered.

He didn’t blink. “You left the room.”

The seconds stretched.

Then he nodded toward the elevator. “Upstairs. Now.”

The penthouse was too quiet when you stepped out ahead of him. James followed without a word. You wanted to beg, explain, plead, but something in your gut told you it would make it worse.

“Take off the robe,” he said.

You obeyed.

It slipped from your shoulders and puddled at your feet. You stood naked in front of him, pulse pounding, thighs trembling. The cool air prickled across your skin. You hated how much you felt everything when he looked at you like he was in control of every molecule in the room.

He walked around you once, slow, his metal hand trailing up your side as he passed. You flinched when he stopped behind you.

“I give you luxury. I give you safety,” he said, tone like gravel dragged over silk. “And still, you need to test me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Quiet.”

He walked away.

You turned, uncertain, until you saw what he was pulling from the drawer beside the chaise: leather restraints. You had seen them before. You just hadn’t earned them yet.

Until now.

You lay on the chaise again. He tied your wrists behind the backrest. Tighter than before, but not cruel. The position arched your back slightly, lifting your chest, parting your thighs without command. You felt heavy and exposed, thick legs trembling against the cool leather.

James stood in front of you, face impassive. He undid the buttons of his sleeves slowly. Then the first two of his shirt. He didn’t undress. He didn’t touch himself. He just looked at you.

“I want you to remember something,” he said, voice low.

You nodded, breath stuttering.

“When you disobey me, you don’t get punished with pain.”

He leaned in, hand sliding between your thighs.

“You get punished with pleasure you don’t control.”

His fingers swept you open with the precision of someone who had mapped this territory a thousand times, but meant now to make it new. His touch was slow, pitilessly so, one finger pressed in, nudging you apart, his thumb stroking the slick skin above, the movement so light it barely registered as sensation at all. 

You nearly sobbed at the soft, barely-there pass of his thumb over your clit, just one measured circle, a feather-light touch of nerves spun so tight they sang, and then, just as quickly, he withdrew. 

The abrupt absence was worse than the teasing. You tried to twist, to follow, to grind your pelvis into his hand, but the restraints held you fast and he was already gone, hands in his pockets, eyes on your face as if he could read every instance of disappointment and need.

He took his time settling himself in the armchair across from you, legs spread, hands folded loosely. You wanted to scream, to beg, to plead for more. 

Instead, you whimpered.

He watched you.

Five minutes passed.

He said nothing, just sat there, eyes locked on you, your bare body flushed, your hips twitching, your thighs sticky from arousal and anticipation.

Your breathing turned ragged.

“Please.”

His brow arched slightly. “Please what?”

“Touch me.”

“You didn’t ask permission to leave the room. Why would I give you permission to come?”

His voice was too calm.

“Because I’m—”

“You’re wet,” he interrupted, standing again. “And disobedient. That’s all.”

He moved to stand over you again, then dropped to his knees between your parted legs. His metal hand gripped your thigh, firm, but not painful. The other slid back to your core.

He didn’t offer mercy. That was the point. Every touch was trained cruelty, a lesson in the difference between pleasure and power. 

He started slow, circling your clit with the barest whisper of a touch, never quite pressing down, never quite giving you what you needed. The restraint was maddening. You wanted to curse at him, to buck your hips until you forced his fingers to pay attention, but the silks and the weight of his gaze pinned you in place. 

He was silent except for the soft exhale of his breath. When he finally let two fingers slide inside you, it was with surgical precision. His thumb returned to its orbit above, maddeningly light, while the inside curl of his fingers found the spot that made your vision swim. He pressed and released, coaxed and retreated, not allowing rhythm or pattern. 

You moaned, the sound thick and desperate, and flexed around him. He didn’t falter, didn’t give you any more or less than the exact amount that would keep you trembling on the edge.

You could feel yourself getting close, the tension boiling up from your core, making your vision edge with white. You tried to chase it, to grind yourself down onto his hand, but he anticipated every move and adjusted accordingly, keeping you right at the precipice, never letting you fall.

Then, just as your release crept close, he stopped.

He pulled his fingers out, sat back, and watched.

You whimpered. You begged.

It was a kind of exquisite torture, the rhythm with which he edged you: hard, then soft, then nothing, each time dragging you up the peak of sensation only to leave you stranded and trembling on the ledge. 

Sometimes he’d pull away completely, retreating to the chair and simply watching you as your body spasmed and shook. Sometimes he’d keep a single finger in place, holding you open, but not moving, letting the ache throb and echo through the hollow he’d left behind. 

Once, he simply brushed his thumb across your clit, just once, a quiver of sensation that made your hips jerk off the leather, and then he let his hand fall away, as if even that briefest contact had been too generous.

He was the very model of self-control, and it drove you half-mad. You lost track of how many times he brought you to the brink and then denied you. Each time built on the last, doubling and tripling the desperation in your veins. 

Your thighs shook uncontrollably, sweat prickled your hairline, your face burned from the humiliation but you didn’t care, not when he was looking at you as if every reaction you had was a note in his private ledger of what you needed most. You sobbed, not out of pain or fear, but from the impossibility of it, the never-ending crescendo, the pleasure banked and banked until it set your nerves screaming for release. Tears tracked down your cheeks and you didn’t even try to hide them.

He circled your clit again, once, twice, three times, each pass a silent study in how your body contorted to chase him. Then he’d give you another taste, two fingers, curling perfectly, the heel of his palm pressed just so, and you’d feel yourself flare to life again, wanting, needing, burning. But every time you got close, every time the pressure built to the point of no return, he pulled back. No warning, no mercy. You tried to plead at first, your voice breaking on the words, but he silenced you with a shake of his head, the smallest gesture, like a king sentencing his subject to another hour in the stocks.

By the time he edged you for the sixth (or was it the seventh?) time, you were wild with it. Words dissolved in your mouth, replaced by a hoarse, inhuman sound that didn’t even belong to you. You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood. Your hands twisted in the silk, useless, and your legs splayed wide, shaking with every denied climax. Still, he didn’t relent. 

The pain of denial became its own pleasure, an agony so sharp it blurred into ecstasy. You wanted to hate him for it, wanted to fight him, but you couldn’t do anything except take it, again and again, until you broke.

“Please,” you begged again, voice breaking. “James. Please, I can’t—”

He moved fast.

One moment he was seated, the next, he was on you.

He shoved his slacks down just enough to free himself, thick and heavy and hard from watching you suffer.

He didn’t tease.

He thrust in all at once, filling you completely, your walls fluttering around him from the aftershocks of too many almost-orgasms. The sound that tore from your throat was both scream and moan.

He grunted, burying himself deeper.

“You’ll remember this next time you think about disobeying me,” he growled against your neck.

He fucked you with a brute efficiency, a deliberate, relentless force that wasn’t about finding some shared rhythm but about wringing every last ounce of sensation from you. Each thrust was a demand: for surrender, for memory, for penance for your earlier disobedience. There was no warning, no gentle transition. One moment your body was empty, the ache in your pussy cruel and endless, and the next you were filled so completely, so suddenly, that the shock of it made you gasp. 

He bottomed out inside you, thick and unyielding, slamming into you. You could feel the press of him everywhere: in your belly, in your spine, in the taut, straining muscles of your thighs where the leather stuck to your fevered skin.

He didn’t let you adjust, didn’t let you catch your breath, just pounded into you again and again, each motion designed to shatter, to overload. Your hips arched off the chaise in pure reflex. 

The silks bit into your wrists, your breath hitched and stuttered, and every nerve ending in your body sang with overstimulation, a pleasure so sharp and high it bordered on pain. Your vision went blurry, edged with a white so pure it felt like static in your brain. 

You weren’t sure if you were screaming or sobbing or begging anymore, but it didn’t matter. He drowned out every sound with the slap of skin on skin, the staccato rhythm of his hips as he fucked you through it, showing no mercy and demanding none in return.

Your orgasm ripped through you without warning, a tidal wave cresting over the broken dam of your restraint, and for a moment every muscle in your body locked in place, your back bowed, your thighs shaking so violently you thought you might snap in half. The pleasure was raw and electric, a current that burned through you and left you gutted and empty in its wake. 

And still he didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, pistoned in and out as the aftershocks wracked you, making your body convulse around him, making you sob and babble and beg for something you couldn’t even name. 

You felt yourself coming again, barely seconds after the first, a second spasm that left you boneless and breathless at the same time. You realized, dimly, that this was what he wanted: to break you open, to fill you so completely there was no room left for anything but him.

And he didn’t stop.

You sobbed.

“Too much—”

He grabbed your hips harder, holding you still.

“One more.”

You came again.

Blinding, shattering, ripped from you like punishment and reward all at once.

Only then, at the peak of it, when you’d gone so numb from pleasure that you half-suspected you’d never walk straight again, did he relent enough to let himself come. He let go with a roar so rough it seemed to tear itself out of his chest, animal and raw, his arms locked tight around your hips. He pressed into you, so deep it was less fucking than total immersion. You felt it in every cell: the sudden, violent heat of his release, the way his body shuddered, the almost desperate clutch of his hands at your waist. 

He didn’t collapse or soften. Instead, he held himself there, impaled and quivering, his breathing so loud it rattled your eardrums. There was no space between you, just the thick, wet heat of your demolished bodies, the ache where bone and tendon had bent to his will. The tension in his arms never eased, as if he feared you’d unravel and disappear if he let go for even a second. 

You were boneless, shattered, your mind reduced to a blur, your world shrunk to the hard length of him pulsing inside you and the relentless, uncompromising way he wouldn’t let you go. 

Something about the stillness, the sheer possession of it, made you want to cry. To beg for more or less or anything at all. Anything that would make sense of the dizzying ache he’d left inside you. 

When he pulled out, you whimpered again, emptied in every possible way.

He untied your wrists carefully. Sat beside you. Brushed damp hair from your cheek.

“You’re learning,” he said quietly.

You closed your eyes.

You wanted to remember every second.

Chapter 3: Steve's Assignment (18+; MDNI)

Tag List is for the FULL FIC only. Please comment if you wish to be on the Series Tag List, or my All Bucky Tag List.

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd @kitasownworld @sensuouscactus @cyacola @justalittle47 @bunniotomia @mayal0pez @star-yawnznn @bartonsparrow25 @globetrotter28 @sebastians-love @emmathefanficgal @equallyspicylocket @daiseymaisy @thelastbluecookie @daydreamgoddess14 @ria132love @lokislady82 @daydreaming136 @sweetserendipity65 

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

The Debt is Due

Chapter 1 of the 18+ MDNI Bucky Barnes x You Mafia AU series.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x You (female, curvy)

Word Count: 2.0k

Summary: You’re delivered to James Buchanan Barnes. That night he uses you for the first time.

Trigger Warnings: Being undressed not entirely willingly, dub-con, (non-con?idk?), fingering, unprotected P-in-V (be safe out there), hands tied behind back

Author’s Note: This is Chapter 1 of my Bucky Barnes Mafia AU series. It is essentially smut wrapped in emotional slow burn.

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

⚠ PLEASE read the trigger warnings before beginning ⚠

You woke up in silk.

Not a bed, but a wide leather chaise in the middle of a cavernous, dimly lit penthouse. Thick velvet curtains hung where you assumed the windows were, but they blocked out all light. The walls were deep gray, the color of concrete softened by shadow. A liquor cart glinted in the corner. A single, low-burning fireplace crackled behind you. The silence was as heavy as the robe wrapped around your body, golden silk, thin and slightly oversized, cinched at the waist with a smooth tie you didn’t remember fastening.

You sat up slowly, no cuffs or bindings on you. There was no lock on the door, but you weren’t free.

He sat in the far corner of the room, half-swallowed by the velvet darkness. James Buchanan Barnes. You didn’t know him, only heard the rumors that he ran the east coast like a chessboard. That he never touched a gun because his hands were enough. That when someone owed him, they never owed again.

But your father? He was still alive.

Because Barnes had taken you instead.

You tried to speak. Your voice came out hoarse. “Where am I?”

He didn’t answer.

He stood instead, slowly and deliberately. He wore a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Broad shoulders, a gold watch glinting on his wrist. His metal hand, the left side, reflected the firelight like a weapon forged for silence.

He stopped two feet in front of you.

“You’re warm,” he said finally, voice low and smooth. His eyes swept over the plushness of your form. “Soft. Exactly how I wanted you.”

You opened your mouth again. “What do you want from—”

“Don’t speak unless I tell you to.”

You froze.

He reached down and took the sash of your robe in his hand. His flesh one, rough and warm. His fingers brushed yours as he slowly untied the knot. The robe slipped loose around your shoulders, falling open like a held breath. You gasped, grabbing at it instinctively.

He didn’t stop you.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said, studying your face. “Eventually, you’ll stop covering yourself when I look at you.”

His gaze dipped lower, lingering on the way your thighs spread over the chaise, the curve of your belly rising with every shallow breath. You were bare underneath.

The fire popped. You flinched at the sound.

Barnes’s hand moved to your chin, thumb brushing the edge of your lip. He didn’t kiss you. He treated you like a living sculpture, an object meant for his use, not his affection. There was no cruelty in his expression, only ownership.

“You’ll sleep here,” he said. “You’ll eat when I tell you. You’ll stay quiet unless I ask you something. And when I want you…” 

His fingers drifted down, brushing the silk off your thigh. “You’ll be available.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” you whispered, too stunned to filter your words.

“You didn’t have to.” His voice was quiet. “Your father signed you over to me.”

And then he stepped between your legs.

You should have pushed him away. You should have screamed. But the part of your brain that screamed SURVIVE was louder, so you froze.

Barnes slid the robe from your shoulders. It fell to the couch beneath you, pooling like ink. You were bare in front of him now, soft, full, and entirely exposed. And he was still fully dressed, like a man admiring a masterpiece he already owned.

He ran his hand down your side, not hurried or distracted, like he was feeling for something familiar. His thumb pressed into the softness of your waist, and he made a sound low in his throat.

“They said I’d be disappointed,” he muttered. “They were so very wrong.”

He reached into his pocket. A black silk scarf—soft, luxurious, completely unnecessary. He held it up.

“Arms behind your back,” he said.

You obeyed.

He tied your wrists loosely at your lower back. It wasn’t tight enough to hurt. It seemed mostly symbolic. A reminder that you weren’t going anywhere. That your comfort was never the point.

When he knelt between your legs, you stopped breathing.

He spread your thighs with both hands, one warm, one cool metal. You whimpered, instinctive and sharp. He paused, only momentarily.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said. Not a promise, but a statement of fact.

His hand brushed your inner thigh, then your core, fingers gentle but possessive. He didn’t look at your face, just at what he was uncovering.

“You’re wet,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re scared… and still, you’re wet.”

He slid two fingers into you. You weren’t sure how, but the shock was cold and burning at once, the pressure of it somehow both expected and impossible to anticipate. Deep and slow, with a surety that made your knees want to lock and your spine bend backwards against the silken restraint. 

You heard yourself make a desperate, feral and honestly mortifying sound, but he paid it no heed. His fingers curled, slow and deliberate, like he was mapping private territory. The first knuckle pressed so precisely against a spot inside you that you forgot to breathe. Your hips jerked off the chaise, involuntary, and the scarf at your wrists tightened just enough to remind you there would be no escape, not even from your own betraying body.

He watched the way your body yielded. The movement of your hips, the flush that raced up your chest to your cheeks. 

You could feel yourself pulsing around his fingers, the heat between your legs so stark and unfamiliar that it might have belonged to someone else, some other girl, built for this. 

He twisted his wrist, metal and warm flesh moving in perfect, predatory concert, and your body shuddered around the invasion. 

You tried to bite back the noise, but it came anyway, a thin, pleading whimper that you hoped the fire might swallow.

His thumb brushed over the hood of your clit, barely a touch, but it was enough to send a new wave of sensation radiating outward. You gasped, humiliation and heat colliding so violently your head spun.

He pulled them out and studied the slick on his fingers. Then he stood, looming over you, his expression unreadable.

He unbuckled his belt, unzipped, and for a second, you forgot how to exist.

He pressed the thick head of his cock against your entrance, teasing, not yet pushing. When he finally did enter you, it was all at once, brutal and deep, the kind of claiming that left no doubt who you belonged to.

Your arms strained against the silk binding, body jerking at the sudden fullness. He didn’t groan. He just breathed hard through his nose, like he’d been waiting hours for this.

He moved with deliberate rhythm, each thrust deep and unrelenting. Every time he pulled out, he gave you just enough time to feel the emptiness before filling you again.

The chaise creaked under his weight. Your skin was flushed, damp. You could feel yourself giving in, your body, traitorous and trembling, rocking with him as much as against him.

His hand slid under your jaw, tilted your head up. He looked down at you then, pupils blown wide.

“You’re doing well,” he murmured. “Didn’t think you’d take me this easily.”

You whimpered, shame blooming behind your ribs. He leaned in, still inside you, still moving.

“You’ll beg for this by next week.”

He pressed the pad of his thumb against your clit and moved it in slow, deliberate circles. The sensation struck like a shockwave, radiating outward in sudden, expanding rings. You spasmed beneath him, thighs jerking wide and then snapping shut again, helpless against the onslaught. Each pass of his thumb was a demand: feel, respond, surrender. 

You tried to bite back the raw gasp that rose in your throat, but there was no containing the noise or the way your spine arched off the chaise, pushing your body into his hand as if it was the only anchor you had. Your wrists tugged at the silk scarf, a tiny, ineffectual rebellion. The knot held fast, a reminder that everything happening was his design, not yours. The air was thick, rich with the scent of sweat and smoke and something primal, an animal thing rising from the depths of you, refusing to be stamped out.

Barnes watched with narrowed eyes, the blue almost devoured by black. He saw every twitch of your muscles, every involuntary shudder. Your face was flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide with fear and pleasure both. The pressure built in your belly, a dark, coiling thing that threatened to explode if you let yourself fall. Still, he didn’t let up. His thumb circled, pressed, circled again, relentless.

Your legs shook. You clenched around him, tight and helpless. He gripped your hips, slammed into you harder, fast, brutal, desperate, like something had cracked open inside him and all that hunger came rushing out.

The next sound you made was not a gasp but a cry, high and sharp, echoing off the walls. 

Your climax crashed over you like an electric shock, legs thrashing, back bowed, pulse thrumming in your ears so loud you almost missed the rough, satisfied grunt Barnes made above you. You came around him, tight as a fist, and he groaned low in his throat, watching you. He rewarded you with a brutal, perfect snap of his hips, pushing deeper, holding you pinned and open.

His own release was nearly silent when he followed you a moment later. There was no shout or groan, just a single, sharp hiss drawn through his clenched teeth and the white-knuckled pressure of his hands anchoring your hips to the edge of the chaise. 

He held you there, held you open, as the quivering in your thighs worked itself into aftershocks. He stayed buried inside you, rigid and unyielding, as if the act of letting go required a full-body stillness. 

His breath scalded the air above you, shallow and uneven, while the weight of him pressed you deeper into the cushions. You lay there, limbs splayed and trembling, sweat cooling on your skin, feeling the clockwork pulse of his cock inside you as he emptied himself.

For a moment, he didn’t move. You wondered if he would leave you like this, spread and ruined, bound and burnished by the firelight, part of the furniture in a room that would never belong to you. The scarf bit into your wrists with the strain, but you didn’t dare twist free or beg for release. You waited, heartbeat thumping against the back of your tongue, for him to decide what you were meant to do next.

Then, with a slow, viscous inevitability, he pulled out. You felt every millimeter, every ragged edge of friction, every unwilling flutter of your own body clutching for him as he retreated. The wetness of it was obscene, a raw, slick sound that made you want to disappear. He lingered, cock wet and gleaming, before tucking himself back into his pants with the same meticulous care he’d used to undress you. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look you in the eye.

He untied the scarf at your wrists, slow and methodical, as if deliberate movement was the only thing keeping him from dissolving into pure appetite and tearing you apart again. The moment you were free, you jerked your arms down and hugged them to your body, spine curved in on itself, protecting what little of yourself you could.

He then reached for the robe where it lay crumpled around your hips, shook it free with one hand, and draped it over your nakedness. The silk stuck to your damp skin, cool and shivery, and you shuddered when his fingers brushed the inside of your knee. 

You couldn’t look at him.

He leaned down and brushed a strand of hair from your face. His voice was low and calm.

“You may call me James.”

And then he left you there, trembling, dripping, stunned in the firelight, without a word more.

Chapter 2: Disobedience (18+; MDNI)

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd @kitasownworld @sensuouscactus @cyacola @justalittle47 @bunniotomia @mayal0pez @star-yawnznn @bartonsparrow25 @globetrotter28 @sebastians-love @emmathefanficgal @equallyspicylocket @daiseymaisy @thelastbluecookie @daydreamgoddess14 @ria132love @lokislady82 @daydreaming136 @sweetserendipity65 

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

i’m insane (as if that was new) but… bucky helping reader get off? someone lock me in the padded room. anyways, lysm 🤍

we're gonna need to be locked in the padded room together. smiling, kicking my feet thinking of this. ILY🫶

Warnings: smut (explicit), fingering, grinding, dirty talk, praise, possessive Bucky, slightly desperate reader, soft aftercare.

-----------

You’re restless. Not in the usual way—not the normal, “can’t fall asleep” kind of restless, but the kind where your skin prickles under your clothes, nerves firing off like tiny sparks.

And Bucky notices. He always notices.

You’ve been shifting beside him on the couch, legs pressed together, hands fiddling with the hem of your shorts like you’re trying to convince yourself you can ignore it. Like you can smother that low ache in your belly with sheer willpower.

But his eyes track you, unblinking, from the other end of the sofa. That sharp blue gaze misses nothing.

“Doll,” he drawls finally, voice low and threaded with suspicion, “what’s goin’ on over there?”

Your head snaps up, heat crawling up your neck. “N-nothing.”

Wrong answer. The corner of his mouth lifts, wicked and knowing. He sets the book in his hand down on the table, shifting his body so his whole attention is on you. One forearm draped across the back of the couch, the other settling lazily on his thigh—like he’s got all the time in the world to watch you squirm.

“Try again.”

You swallow. Your thighs press tighter together. It only makes the ache worse.

“I—” Your voice stutters, pathetic, breath catching in your throat. “I can’t stop thinking about—”

Bucky hums, tilting his head. “About what?”

His tone is soft, coaxing, but his eyes flash darker when your gaze drops, when your lip gets caught between your teeth.

Your silence is answer enough.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he breathes, shifting closer now, his big body taking up more space than seems fair. “You’re wound up, aren’t you?”

You nod, shame burning hot in your chest.

Bucky’s grin is slow and devastating. “And here you are, sufferin’ through it instead of askin’ me for help.”

“I didn’t—” you start, but his hand is already sliding up your thigh, squeezing gently, grounding you with the heat of his touch.

“Didn’t wanna bother me?” His brows lift, incredulous. “Doll, makin’ you feel good is the farthest thing from a bother. It’s my favorite fuckin’ thing.”

That makes your breath hitch, your hips tilting involuntarily toward his hand.

And Bucky catches it. Oh, he always catches it.

“There it is,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, darker. His palm slips higher, fingers brushing the hem of your shorts. “You need me to take care of you, yeah?”

Your nod is frantic, desperate. “Please.”

The sound you make when his hand cups over the front of your shorts—when he feels the heat radiating through the thin fabric—is humiliating. A whine that scrapes your throat raw, your hips grinding helplessly against his hand like your body’s been waiting for this exact kind of relief.

Bucky groans, low and rough, like he feels it too. “Fuck, baby. You’re soaked.”

“Been—been like this all night,” you admit, your voice trembling.

That earns you a sharp kiss, his mouth claiming yours, stealing your breath while his fingers rub firm, lazy circles over your clothed clit. You’re shaking already, clutching at his t-shirt, mouth opening under his like you’ve been starving for it.

“Coulda just told me,” he murmurs against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom one before he pulls it gently between his teeth. “Woulda had my fingers buried inside you an hour ago if you’d asked.”

Your whole body jolts at the thought. Your shorts are shoved down before you can even register him moving, his calloused hand sliding against bare skin now, parting your thighs with a firm, unyielding touch.

“Spread ‘em for me, doll,” he orders, soft but commanding.

You obey instantly.

“Good girl.” His words are warm, molten, sinking deep into your chest as his fingers find your clit again, bare now, and the contact nearly rips a cry from your throat.

He doesn’t give you time to hide it. Doesn’t give you time to be embarrassed. His gaze is locked on your face, greedy, like he wants to see every single flicker of pleasure that crosses it.

“That’s it. Ride my hand, sweetheart. Just like that.”

You’re already doing it without thinking, grinding down against the heel of his palm while his fingers circle and press, unrelenting. Every brush of skin against yours sends shocks through your veins, and you can’t stop the sounds falling from your mouth—whimpers, moans, broken pleas.

Bucky’s lips curl in satisfaction. “So fuckin’ needy for me. Look at you.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, clinging to him like you’ll fall apart otherwise. “Bucky—”

“Mm, I got you, doll. Gonna make you come so hard, you won’t remember your own name.”

And then—two thick fingers slide inside you, easy from how wet you are, filling you perfectly, curling just right against that spot that makes your vision blur. You cry out, back arching, as his thumb presses back to your clit.

“Fuck!”

“That’s it,” he growls, his forehead pressing to yours, voice rough with want. “Take my fingers. So fuckin’ tight around me. You were made for this, you know that? Made for me.”

You can only whimper, clenching desperately around him as his pace builds, curling his fingers deeper, faster, working you open while his thumb keeps circling your clit. The pleasure builds fast, unbearable, like a dam about to burst.

“Please—I’m—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His tone sharpens, command lacing through his voice. “You can take it. Gonna soak my hand like the good girl you are.”

That praise pushes you over the edge. You come with a shuddering cry, body convulsing, clenching around his fingers while white-hot bliss floods every nerve.

Bucky doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you go—not until you’re whimpering, begging, the aftershocks too much. Only then does he ease you down gently, slowing his movements until you’re slumped against him, shaking, chest heaving.

“Breathe, doll,” he whispers, kissing your temple. His fingers slip free, slick and glistening, and he doesn’t hesitate to bring them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan that makes heat flare all over again in your belly.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Your face burns, your whole body trembling as you bury it in his chest. “You’re insane.”

Bucky chuckles, warm and fond, rubbing your back as he pulls you closer. “Maybe. But you’re mine. And I’ll help you get off every damn time you need it.”

And from the look in his eyes, the way he’s already hard beneath his sweats, you know he means it.

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

you, unblurred.

Pairing: Post-Thunderbolts!Bucky x NewAvenger!Reader

Summary: You hated him. You swore you did. Until the dick pics you’d been seeing for months turned out to belong to your mission partner—the man who barely looked at you in daylight.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, mutual masturbation (via FaceTime), p in v sex (unprotected), first time sex (reader), dirty talk, breastplay (nipple sucking), wet grinding (clothed and bare), edging (reader), orgasm denial (brief), praise kink, possessive!soft!Bucky vibes, intense intimacy, post-orgasm shaking, soft aftercare cuddling

Word Count: 8.7k

You hadn’t even made it halfway through your first week and you were already public enemy number one in the eyes of Bucky Barnes.

Valentina hadn’t given you much warning. One curt message, no fanfare. Just a quick relocation order and the kind of tone that made it clear you weren’t allowed to say no. You were to report to the newly restructured Watchtower—what used to be the old Avengers Tower, now stripped of its former glory and repurposed for the next wave of heroes. Or, as the media loved to call it: The New Avengers.

But the title never sat well with you.

“New Avengers” sounded like cheap branding. A desperate repackage. Like you were standing in the shadow of gods and legends, trying on their hand-me-downs and pretending they still fit. You didn’t see yourself in that lineup. You didn’t want to. So you clung to something else.

You were Thunderbolts. Raw, messy, cobbled together by circumstance and grief, yes—but still sharp around the edges. Thunderbolts sounded tougher. Grittier. Real. You liked that.

Your first day was already a disaster.

You’d overslept after flying in from a red-eye, scrambled into your navy leggings and cropped black tank, hair still damp from a rushed shower and barely twisted into a low bun. One hand juggled your phone, the other a hot, nearly-overflowing paper cup of coffee. Wedged awkwardly under your arm? A grease-stained paper bag with a very loaded chili dog inside. Extra chili. Always extra chili.

You were running toward the elevator when the doors slid open—and you didn’t realize someone was standing inside until your boot clipped the edge of the hallway runner and you were airborne.

You collided full force with a solid chest, and everything you were holding—coffee, chili, dignity—exploded across the poor bastard who’d been unlucky enough to stand in your path.

Bucky Barnes.

Your coffee soaked the front of his dark red henley. Chili smeared across his chest. A fat drop of sauce slid down the side of his neck, and by some miracle, a single black bean clung to his collarbone like a badge of shame.

His eyes snapped to you—ice-blue and narrowing fast.

You froze. “Oh shit—I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—I’ll clean it, I swear—like, personally. Or I’ll run your errands for the week. Seven days. No questions—”

He didn’t say a word.

Just a hard exhale. A glare sharp enough to slice bone. Then he turned, dripping and silent, and walked off the elevator like he hadn’t just been assaulted by caffeine and chili grease.

You stood there in stunned horror, the doors sliding closed behind him.

By the time you finally made it up to the Watchtower’s main lounge—jittery, sweating, and still slightly smelling like cumin—most of the team had already gathered.

Yelena had taken one look at your half-spilled coffee and chili-smeared shirt and declared, “You look like chaos. I like it.”

John Walker gave you a nod and a raised brow, then returned to sulking over a protein shake.

Alexei had tried to pitch you on his “secret endurance routine” within the first five minutes.

You laughed. Politely declined.

It was messy. Loud. Barely functional. But comforting in a strange way—like finding out the group project you were forced into was at least full of people who didn’t take themselves too seriously.

Then you saw him again.

Bucky entered the lounge a few minutes later, now dressed in his black compression shirt and tactical pants—his training gear. His hair was damp, brushed back behind his ears, and his jaw looked freshly clenched. You straightened up instinctively, wiping your palms on your leggings, then took a breath and stepped toward him.

You opened your mouth to greet him, maybe even introduce yourself properly this time.

He walked past you.

Didn’t look. Didn’t stop. Just kept moving like you weren’t even there.

You heard him grunt—low, sharp, and unmistakably annoyed.

You knew it was meant for you.

A warning shot.

A sign of war.

—

It didn’t end there.

Over the next few days, Bucky made it very clear you were on his shit list. Every time he assigned training rotations, you got the worst of it. Your combat drills were brutal—sparring reps that left your ribs aching and your pride in pieces. While others got to rotate partners, you were stuck running simulations against one of the Widow bots that seemed permanently set to maximum aggression.

The gym sessions? A damn death sentence. Weighted vests. Endurance drills until your lungs felt like they were trying to claw their way out of your chest. No water breaks. No mercy.

He didn’t speak to you. Barely looked at you.

Except when he did, and it was always across the room—like he could smell your failure before he saw it. Like your presence alone was a personal offense.

You tried. You really did. But by week two, your patience ran out.

One late afternoon, you were in the pantry with Yelena, peeling open a protein bar and venting under your breath.

“He’s just—ugh, he’s a grumpy old bastard,” you muttered. “Looks like he hasn’t slept since the Cold War and acts like he’s allergic to joy. Like, take a goddamn nap in a grave already.”

Yelena snorted into her coffee, half-choking.

Unfortunately, you didn’t notice John Walker stepping in through the hallway behind you.

“You know Bucky’s just next door, yeah?” he said casually, leaning against the counter with that smirk he always wore when he was about to stir up some trouble.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, so?”

John arched a brow. “And you do know he’s enhanced.”

“So what?”

“So…” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “He can hear all that shit you’re talking. Loud and clear. Pretty sure he’s listening right now.”

You froze mid-bite, mouth still half-open, stomach dropping like a stone.

Yelena widened her eyes in faux horror and whispered, “You’re so dead.”

You considered apologizing. Maybe retreating. Maybe fleeing the country.

But the truth?

You were tired of walking on eggshells. You’d tripped once. It was an accident. You hadn’t meant to spill anything on him. And if the great Sergeant Barnes wanted to crucify you over one clumsy mistake and make your life hell over a chili dog and a coffee?

Then let him.

You swallowed the bite, turned back to your protein bar, and said with zero remorse—

“Good.”

—

You didn’t stop shit-talking Bucky Barnes after that first day.

If anything, you escalated.

Not publicly—well, not all the time. But every night, without fail, you’d unload your frustrations somewhere far safer. Somewhere faceless. Somewhere private.

You had a fling.

Not a lover. Not even a real person, as far as you could prove. You’d met him long before this whole Thunderbolts mess started, back when your life was quieter, lonelier, when everything still felt like it was just slightly out of reach. You were still moving between safe houses and temp assignments then, with no anchor point but your own reflection—and a damn dating app that promised distraction if not affection.

He caught your eye immediately. Not because of the photos—there weren’t many—but the bio. Dry. Hilarious. And oddly sad in a way that curled around your ribs and settled there.

Been cold for a while. Warming up slowly. Thought maybe someone out there had the defrost button.

It made you pause. Laugh. Swipe right.

He matched with you in less than a minute.

The first message was a joke. Obscure, borderline ridiculous, laced in some cryptic code about how hard it was to feel human again in a world that never really waited for you. You responded in kind—half sarcasm, half curiosity. It spiraled from there. Inside jokes layered like bricks. Memes, strange hypotheticals, long nights of talking in half-truths and wry honesty.

And then, somewhere along the line… things turned filthy.

It wasn’t planned. It just happened. Like a switch flipped. One voice note became two. Then came the late-night confessions. The breathy admissions. The images. Not full nudes—he never sent anything that showed his face. But the way he described things? The way he talked? It made your stomach twist and your thighs squeeze together under the sheets.

His voice was low, rough in the corners, always a little tired like he’d recorded it with his head resting on a pillow. But the words were razor-sharp. Soft growls of praise. Dirty commands. Compliments that didn’t sound like he was bluffing, like he actually meant it when he called you his “good girl” or said he’d drop to his knees for you if you just asked.

And then there were the pics.

Oh, the pics.

Awkward angles, yes. But unmistakable. He was filthy thick. Curved slightly to the right. Veiny in a way that made your mouth water. Every photo was captioned with some deadpan comment that made you laugh and ache.

This angle is 90% countertop and 10% cock. Not sorry.

Too cold for dick pics but I suffer for art.

If I die of embarrassment, bury me face down so you can sit on my shame.

You’d called him the King of Come-dick (get it? Comedic Dick?), and he told you that was going in his will.

And even without a name or a face, you felt more seen in those chats than you ever had in real life. He made you laugh. He made you beg. He made you feel good.

But lately, those voice notes had taken on a different flavor.

Because now you were venting.

Every night.

After a day of getting your lungs torched by combat drills and your pride mangled by James freaking Barnes, you’d crawl into bed, roll onto your side, and let it all pour out.

Your messages to the fling started as innocent rants.

You ever met someone who just hates you on sight? Like your existence is their 13th reason?

He’s the human version of stepping barefoot on a plug. Like I’m convinced he’s been possessed by an ancient war ghost who hates fun.

I tripped once. ONCE. Now I’m stuck doing training reps that make my organs feel like they’re auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

And your online fling—bless him—never once dismissed you. He didn’t ask too many questions. Didn’t push for context. He just listened.

Told you you were strong. That your instincts were good. That whoever was tearing you down probably didn’t deserve to know the real you. That maybe this guy—this “grumpy dickhead on permanent PMS”—just didn’t know how to handle someone like you. Someone bright. Loud. Capable. Free.

And God, those messages always left you warm. Floating. Like he saw you, even without seeing your face.

You never told him you were a Thunderbolt. Never mentioned the Watchtower. You kept it vague—just some asshole colleague with authority issues.

And he never told you where he was either.

You didn’t need names. Didn’t need faces.

It was better this way. Safer. More honest, somehow.

Besides, it wasn’t like you were in love with the guy.

It was just sex.

Just comfort.

Just a voice in the dark whispering that you were worth more than how Bucky Barnes made you feel.

And if, sometimes, that same voice made your breath hitch and your toes curl under the covers, whispering filth that left you gasping into your pillow?

Well.

That was nobody’s business but yours.

—

By now, the tension between you and Bucky Barnes had evolved into something legendary.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t dignified. It was a living, breathing force that stalked every shared hallway, every joint training session, every goddamn mission briefing. You didn’t speak. He didn’t speak. But somehow, every grunt, eye-roll, sigh, and clipped command felt like it echoed through the whole goddamn Watchtower.

The others noticed.

They definitely noticed.

So much so that one morning in the lounge room—barely ten minutes into your coffee—Yelena snapped.

“For fuck’s sake,” she groaned, slamming her mug down a little too hard. “Can someone ask Bob to summon the Void again? I’m serious. Trap them in it. Lock it. Throw away the key.”

Across from her, Bob nearly choked on his protein shake.

He looked up, blinking. “You want me to… what? No. Absolutely not. Do you know how hard I’ve worked to keep that thing buried?”

She narrowed her eyes. “So don’t be the Void. Be Sentry. Throw Bucky somewhere far. Like Antarctica. That should fix it.”

You were already suppressing a laugh, staring into your bowl of cereal like it had the answers to your spiritual collapse.

Bucky, of course, was seated at the end of the long couch—tablet in hand, thumbing through mission briefs with a scowl that seemed surgically attached to his face.

“I heard that, Lena,” he muttered dryly without looking up.

Then he did look up.

Right at you.

The kind of look that scraped across your skin like ice on bare flesh. Not even anger anymore. Just a quiet, simmering disdain. A full-body ugh.

He dragged his finger across the tablet, ignoring everyone else, scrolling like you weren’t worth more than a line item in his day.

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard.

It had been days since you last messaged your fling—missions had kept you busy, bruised, mentally wiped. But today? You needed a lifeline. You needed him.

You reached for your phone under the table and typed, thumbs moving fast, tension bubbling under your skin.

Shitty day at work. Missed you a little more than usual today. Hope you’re alive and not plotting your escape from Earth.

A second later, a ding echoed across the room.

You didn’t look.

But from the corner of your eye… you saw Bucky smile.

Just the ghost of it, but it was there. Quick. Sharp. Subtle enough to vanish in a blink—but unmistakable. The corners of his mouth curved, softening his jaw, lighting up something that should’ve made him look kinder.

Instead, it pissed you off.

How could someone with a smile that beautiful act like such a piece of shit?

Your phone buzzed.

Hey babe. How bad are we talking? On a scale from paper cut to arson?

You nearly melted at the sight of the message. The nickname. The teasing tone. Like your body had been waiting to exhale.

Your fingers flew, fire in your blood as you rose from your seat and power-walked out of the lounge, phone still in hand.

You headed straight for one of the smaller mission debrief rooms—locked the door behind you and threw yourself into the nearest chair like it was a confessional booth.

Same old dickhead being a dickhead again. Just needed your voice or your cock. Either one will do.

It didn’t take long for the response to ping through.

Rough day too. Holding the world together with duct tape and a smile. My shoulders might collapse from all this weight.

You snorted softly, your anger already softening into something warmer, darker, messier. Your thighs pressed together.

Your fingers danced across the screen again.

Maybe a dick pic would help redistribute the emotional labor? 😌

You hit send.

Hot tension unfurled low in your stomach. That fuzzy, heavy pulse building behind your navel. You leaned back in your chair, the silence making your heart beat louder.

A beat passed.

Then the reply:

Not now. Mid-meeting. Bad time.

You pouted, eyes narrowing slightly.

Then your screen lit up.

Image received.

You tapped it open.

It was… tight. Somewhat zoomed in, framed awkwardly from waist down—but unmistakable. The outline of his cock straining against dark, snug tactical pants. Like it was furious to be caged. The bulge was obscene. Rude. Practically throbbing through the screen.

You blinked. Sucked in a breath.

Your pulse jumped.

Mmm, excuse me, bold and nasty? In a meeting?? Someone’s got issues 🫦

No reply.

You waited, but you weren’t upset. He disappeared like this sometimes—usually when work pulled him back under. You understood it. You respected it.

So you looked at the photo again.

Zoomed in a little.

God, it looked so good.

But then… something tugged at your brain. A weird, annoying sense of déjà vu.

The pants.

The texture of the fabric. The way they clung. The slight reinforcement at the side seams. They looked… familiar.

Too familiar.

You frowned.

Hadn’t you seen these somewhere?

But no—no, that was stupid. There were probably ten thousand pairs of pants like that in the world. You were just horny and paranoid.

And horny.

Mostly horny.

You shook the thought away, closed the image, and leaned back with a dreamy sigh.

Whoever your mystery man was… he was your safe space. Your escape.

And there was no way the guy sending you filthy bulge pics from some secret meeting was the same one currently glaring at you every day like you were a plague.

Right?

—

As if things couldn’t get any worse, Valentina had to stick her designer heel right into the wound.

She called it a “strategic adjustment.”

You called it cruel and unusual punishment.

From now on, until further notice—her favorite three words—you were to be partnered with Bucky Barnes. For missions. For sparring. For everything.

Her exact phrasing?

“For God’s sake, Barnes. You’re over a hundred years old. You’ve survived wars, Hydra, cryo, and three near-apocalypses. Fix this shenanigan already. Or I swear, I’ll fix it for you—and neither of you will like my method.”

You wanted to protest.

Bucky didn’t even blink.

Just gave her that flat, dead-eyed look that said he’d rather be in a Siberian prison than listening to this briefing.

So it began.

The first few sparring sessions were nothing short of apocalyptic. Poor coordination, missed cues, accidental hits that didn’t feel that accidental. Zero trust. Zero chemistry. Just bruises, swearing, and thick silence that felt louder than gunfire.

And finally, you snapped.

You threw your gloves across the mat, stormed toward him as he stood there like a statue, and spat the words out like venom.

“What the fuck is your problem, Barnes? Can you say something for once instead of treating me like I’m radioactive?”

His gaze lifted to meet yours. Calm. Unreadable. Stormy blue with something you couldn’t quite name hiding underneath.

He let out a breath.

“This is why,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly.

You blinked. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re still a kid.”

The words landed like a slap—sharp and low.

“What the fuck was that supposed to mean?” you shot back, voice rising.

He exhaled sharply, looked away like he was already done with the conversation.

“You’re not in the right headspace for this. Neither am I. Let’s call it for today. I’ll reschedule the gym session.”

He picked up his towel, unbothered, collected his things like your fury was a passing breeze. Then walked out.

Left you standing there. Burning.

You kicked the mat. “Fuck!”

It echoed. Pointless. No one heard.

Except the part of yourself you were trying desperately to ignore.

The part that kept noticing things. Soft, human things about him.

You’d been avoiding him for so long that you accidentally started watching him. Observing. Catching details you didn’t mean to.

Like the way he always knew what the team needed. Quietly. No fuss.

He gifted Bob a stack of niche self-improvement books—nothing preachy, nothing corny. Just thoughtful reads that let Bob’s mind wander somewhere better. Gave him a way out of his own head.

He remembered Yelena’s favorite protein bars. Replaced them in the kitchen when they ran out, even though no one asked.

And the chili dogs.

You didn’t eat lunch one day—too many back-to-back briefings. You hadn’t even said anything.

But there it was, sitting on your desk an hour later: a warm paper bag with a chili dog inside. Extra extra chili. No mustard.

Exactly the way you liked it.

You never told him how you liked it.

And he hated you. Didn’t he?

You laid flat on the training mat, arms spread out, chest rising and falling fast. Not from the sparring. From the confusion. The ache. The messy swirl of wanting and not wanting and wishing he’d just say what the hell he was thinking for once.

It made you miss your other one even more.

Your secret.

Your escape.

Your not-a-lover, not-a-boyfriend—your ghost between the sheets.

And it made you horny as hell.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. The sweat. The anger. Maybe it was the sound of Bucky’s voice still echoing in your ears. Maybe it was the impossible urge to burn everything down and touch yourself through the flames.

You grabbed your phone.

Your thumbs hovered for a second.

Then you typed.

Throbbing for you today. Thinking of trying something new. Facetime tonight? I want to see you. It’s time.

You stared at the message.

Then hit send.

Your heart fluttered like you just disarmed a bomb.

You’d never done it before—not live. Always voice notes. Pictures. Heavy breathing and whispered praise in the dark. But you wanted more. You needed to see him. To watch his mouth when he groaned. To show him your face when you broke.

Your phone buzzed.

One line.

Been waiting for that, babe. Can’t wait for tonight.

You closed your eyes. Smiled.

Something bloomed deep in your chest.

But then…

Bucky’s face flickered in your mind. That last glance he gave you before walking out—not cruel. Not angry.

Not… disgusted.

For the briefest second, it looked like he wanted to say something. Like he was holding back.

And that scared you more than anything.

Because what if?

What if all this time, he wasn’t just avoiding you?

What if he knew exactly what he was doing?

—

Night fell like it had been waiting all day just to wrap around you. Heavy, quiet, almost expectant. Like even the shadows knew what was about to happen.

You’d made the room exactly the way you wanted it—dim, intimate, anonymous. One small lamp by the bed, screen brightness lowered. Location off. Door locked. Twice.

He had your Apple ID now. You’d never given him your number. That felt too personal. Too dangerous. But your old burner email from when you were eight—the one that made you cringe now?

pwinceszz_n0body@yahoo.com.

Yeah. That one.

It made you feel hidden. Untouchable. Like no one could ever guess who you really were behind a name that dumb.

At exactly 9:15 p.m., your phone buzzed in your palm.

Incoming FaceTime call. From an email you’d never seen before—cryptic, strange: wolfhowling3333333333@icloud.com.

Your stomach flipped.

That was new.

You inhaled deeply, thumb hovering. Then tapped accept.

The call connected.

No faces. No hellos. Just dark screens and careful camera angles.

He had his camera angled low—blanket pooled around his hips, the lens tilted toward the rise under thin dark fabric. Boxers. Nothing else.

Yours was already aimed at your chest—lace crop top, black and barely-there, your nipples visible through the sheer. That was the rule. No real names. No faces. Just bodies and breath. Just touch without touching.

“Hey, babe.” His voice was soft tonight. Lower. Warmer. “Your room’s so dark. I can barely see anything.”

You smiled, voice light. “Same here. What are we—covert ops?”

He laughed quietly. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve done.”

There was a pause.

Heavy with something unsaid.

You reached over and adjusted your lamp just enough to cast a golden wash over your skin. Still cropped. Still framed. Just enough for him to see the swell of your chest.

On the screen, his hips shifted. The blanket moved slightly.

He let out a groan. “Fuck… you’re starting with that?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “What? You think I dressed like this for me?”

He chuckled. It sounded a little strangled.

You flipped the camera to the rear, aimed it lower—down your thighs, where the blanket still clung. Slowly, deliberately, you peeled it back. The cool air hit your bare cunt and made you flinch.

You didn’t need to look to know he was watching.

His voice thickened. “Jesus, baby… you’re unreal.”

You stayed quiet. Let him drink it in.

He shifted again. His hand slid down, over the bulge pressing hard against his boxers. You could see it straining—long, thick, clearly aching to be freed.

“You see that?” he murmured. “Already hard for you. Always.”

You moaned softly in response, your fingers teasing between your folds. Dipping slow. Making a mess of yourself just for him.

“God, yes,” you whispered. “You see this? So fucking wet. For you.”

His hand stroked himself through the fabric, slow at first. Measured. Like he was pacing it just for you.

Then—he dropped the phone.

Just for a moment. The screen tilted to black.

You heard a muffled shuffle of fabric. Movement. A grunt. The sound of him exhaling hard.

Then—

He picked the phone back up.

And there it was.

The cock you’d seen in pictures, now in motion. Hard. Heavy. Curved slightly to the right. Veins running along the shaft like paths you wanted to trace with your tongue.

You whimpered, breath catching. “God… your cock looks so fucking good.”

He wrapped his hand around it and stroked slowly, deliberately.

“Stroke it for me,” you begged, eyes fixed on the screen as your own fingers worked faster. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You turned off your camera for a second—adjusted your angle—then turned it back on. Still cropped. Still hidden. But now angled perfectly between your thighs. Slick. Open. Needy.

“See this?” you whispered. “See what you do to me?”

He moaned—deep, rough, just a little breathless.

The call dissolved into heat. Sound. Wetness. Praise. You whispered filth to him like prayer. He groaned your name like he was falling apart just for you. You were close. So close—

Until—

WEE-OO-WEE-OO. WEE-OO-WEE-OO.

The emergency siren shrieked through your phone like a gunshot.

You gasped and jolted upright—until you realized…

It wasn’t just coming from your phone.

It was echoing.

From his side too.

Same pitch. Same frequency.

Watchtower protocol.

Your heart seized.

You stared at the screen—just as he cursed under his breath.

“Shit.”

Then the screen went black.

Call ended. Gone.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands still between your legs. Your body raw with need.

But your brain?

Your brain was moving in slow, precise horror.

That siren wasn’t public. It wasn’t general Watchtower protocol.

It was specific.

Each mission pair had their own unique alert—encrypted, untraceable outside their shared comms. And that tone… that exact pitch sequence…

It was yours.

Yours and your assigned partner’s.

And your partner?

Was Bucky Barnes.

Your stomach clenched.

You stared down at your phone, pulse pounding. Your body was still humming from the aftershocks, but the rest of you was unraveling.

You blinked at the dark screen. Tried to breathe.

And then your mind began to pull—thread by thread—backward.

The voice. That low rasp that lived somewhere in his throat. Always a little tired. Always a little rough. You’d heard it in the sparring room. You’d heard it moaning your name in the dark.

The timing. The discipline. The almost militant sharpness of his replies. Always exactly on time. Always controlled.

And then—

The way he touched himself.

One hand.

Always the right.

Every picture. Every clip. Every motion you’d ever seen. Cock in his right hand. Phone in his left. You’d never seen anything else. Never thought to question it.

Until now.

Until you remembered exactly what his left hand was made of.

The vibranium.

Always gloved in daylight. Always held behind his back, or casually resting on his hip like it wasn’t worth using. Always there, but never used—not unless it had to be.

Your breath caught.

The pieces stopped falling.

They just… clicked.

The voice. The siren. The silence. The lack of left hand. The way he moved. The refusal to show his face. The email so purposefully anonymous. The instinct to keep himself hidden—just like you had.

You stared at your reflection in the black screen.

Still damp. Still trembling.

“…no fucking way.”

But there was no more room for doubt.

Because if your gut was right—and every part of you said it was—then the man who had just come for you in the dark…

…was the same man who couldn’t even stand to look at you in the light.

You weren’t just turned on.

You were completely, utterly fucked.

—

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, breath still ragged as he ended the call with a swipe of his thumb.

He was seconds from coming—already flushed, tense, his hand wrapped tight around his cock—when the emergency siren blasted through his phone.

His specific alert. High-pitched, short burst, then a long one.

And then… the echo.

The same damn siren, faint but unmistakable, bleeding through the other end of the call. His caller’s phone.

Your phone.

He froze.

Chest still rising and falling. Sweat on his neck. Mind racing.

It took him three full seconds to understand what it meant.

And when it hit—it hit hard.

You.

You.

The woman he was supposed to protect. Train. Lead. The one who spent every meeting glaring at him like he’d kicked your dog in a past life.

You were the one he’d been jerking off to for the last six months.

The one sending him voice notes at midnight. The one calling him baby and making him laugh without even trying. The one who knew exactly how to pull pleasure out of his body with just the sound of your breath.

He dragged a hand over his face. His heart was still pounding, but now it had nothing to do with arousal.

He leaned back in the chair, stared up at the ceiling, and cursed again under his breath.

He hadn’t known.

He swore he hadn’t known.

—Bucky’s POV—

The memory came back uninvited. That first day.

The elevator.

The hot splash of coffee—steaming, not just warm. It scalded straight through his henley, soaked the skin over his chest and shoulder. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood, just to keep from reacting.

He could’ve cursed. Could’ve snapped. But you were already panicking, mumbling rapid apologies, trying to wipe it off with your sleeve. He’d seen the horror in your eyes—wide and sincere and a little ridiculous, considering the chili dog now sliding down his shirt like it was trying to escape judgment.

So he said nothing.

Just clenched his jaw and stepped out the second those elevator doors opened, beelining to the men’s room. Cold water. Fast scrubbing. Quiet pain.

By the time he’d changed and returned to the lounge, he barely had time to scan the room before John Walker waved him over.

“Bucky,” John had said, holding out a tablet. “Priority situation in the Balkans. You’ll want eyes on this.”

Bucky was halfway across the room before he noticed you were there—standing off to the side, a coffee-stained shirt clinging to your frame, looking small but composed, like you were trying not to exist too loudly.

He hadn’t even realized he’d brushed past you until later.

To be fair, you were… small. He towered over you by nearly three and a half heads. And when his mind was in mission-mode, everything else blurred.

But from that moment on—you were cold. Icy. Guarded. Like he’d somehow declared war just by existing.

—

It wasn’t hate.

Not from his side.

Far from it.

Your file had flagged you as physically promising but slightly under-trained in stamina and real-combat conditioning. So he’d structured your simulations to push you—to meet you at the edge of your capacity.

He wasn’t trying to break you.

He was trying to build you.

And goddamn, you’d risen fast. Quicker than most.

You were smart. Sharp. Focused in a way that made him take notice. Your recovery rate improved. Your reflexes tightened. Your rhythm in combat sparring became beautiful to watch.

And yet, you never gave him anything back but sarcasm, glares, and whispered insults when you thought he wasn’t around.

He had heard you in the pantry that day—grumbling to Yelena.

“Grumpy old bastard,” you’d muttered.

He almost laughed.

Because… yeah.

He was grumpy. He was old.

He didn’t take it personally.

But it confused him.

He’d never insulted you. Never shut you down. Never raised his voice.

Even the damn chili dog—he ordered it because you skipped lunch. And because, after weeks of listening, he knew how you liked it. Extra extra chili. No mustard.

It wasn’t a peace offering. Not exactly.

He just… wanted to talk to you. Properly. Without you frowning at him like he was the plague.

But when he dropped it off at your desk, you didn’t even look up.

—

And now?

Now he couldn’t breathe.

Because the woman who shut down every attempt at conversation—the one who rolled her eyes during briefings, who sparred like she was trying to draw blood—

Was the same woman who sent him a voice note last week whispering “I wish I could ride you until we both black out.”

The same woman who tonight had parted her legs on camera, fingers working between her folds, moaning for him like it was a prayer.

And the worst part?

He liked you.

He already liked you.

Even before tonight’s accidental reveal, there was something about you that got under his skin. Your fire. Your mouth. The way you never let him off the hook.

It drove him crazy.

And now?

Now you were burned into his hands. His sheets. His bloodstream.

He groaned, dragging both hands down his face.

You were going to hate him.

You were going to find out. If you hadn’t already.

And when you did—

He wasn’t sure what would destroy him faster.

Your disgust.

Or your silence.

—POV end—

—

You got dressed fast.

That siren could’ve meant anything—civilian threat, global emergency, interdimensional chaos. You’d heard stories. One time they scrambled a team for a goose that got too close to a Stark satellite. Another time, someone joked it might be Galactus. No one laughed.

Whatever it was, you weren’t risking being the last one to show up.

You tugged on your gear, tied your hair up, and bolted for the elevator.

And then—ding.

The doors slid open.

And there he was.

Bucky.

Fully dressed in tactical gear, all buttoned up and brooding like usual. Black compression shirt, black pants, boots laced with military precision. His eyes flicked to you once—just a glance—and then back to the elevator panel. But the tension? Instant. Thick.

It had only been a few minutes since you were both naked, panting, whispering filth into your screens. You could still feel the echo of his voice in your bones. Still hear the ragged way he said “fuck, baby” like he was breaking.

You kept your eyes forward.

You meant to keep them forward.

But your gaze dipped anyway. Just for a second. A glance.

Black tactical pants.

The same ones.

The exact same fit, the same cut. The same pants from that picture. From when he said he was “in a meeting.”

Your stomach dropped.

Your eyes flicked back up—and met his.

Caught.

He saw it.

He saw you seeing it.

Your head snapped to the side, heat crawling up your neck, burning into your ears.

Shit.

The silence pressed in on all sides, humming with everything neither of you were saying.

Then you forced yourself to speak.

“Can we talk… after this? After whatever this whole thing turns out to be?”

Bucky didn’t move much. Just a slight nod, his voice low and steady.

“Sure thing.”

—

The siren turned out to be a false alarm.

A rat.

A rat had chewed through a critical cable cluster near the ops wing. Short-circuited a core and triggered multiple alerts. It was now extra crispy and mostly unrecognizable.

The debrief was short. Everyone dispersed.

You didn’t even breathe until the elevator doors closed again.

Then, his voice beside you.

“Talk in my room? Or do you want the common area?”

You looked up at him, fingers fidgeting at your side.

“Somewhere private. Your room sounds… nice.”

He nodded once. Wordless again.

You followed him down the hall. Past mission boards and storage units.

When he opened his door and let you in, you were hit with the quiet scent of aftershave and clean cotton. Dim lighting. Neat, except—

Your eyes caught it.

The bed.

Blanket slightly skewed. Pillow dented. The indent of where he’d been sitting when the call came in. Like you could trace the shape of him from the air still hanging around it.

He didn’t say anything about it. Just walked to the small kitchen island and poured a glass of water. One for you. One for him.

You sat down on the stool beside him, fingers wrapping around the glass like it could anchor you.

Silence stretched.

And then he spoke.

“So…”

You looked up. His eyes were on the counter. Then on you.

“I know you probably hate me right now. Or want to kill me. Or both. And I get it,” he said, voice low, careful. “But… I’m not gonna pretend I regret any of it. The voice notes. The pictures. That call.”

That call. The way he said it sent heat crawling up your spine.

“I never hated you,” he added, softer now. “Honestly, I never understood why you hated me.”

You blinked.

Your voice came out quieter than you expected. “What are you talking about?”

He looked at you fully now. Not like a soldier. Not like a leader. Just… Bucky.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, the words coming quicker now. “You assigned me harsher drills than Yelena or Ava. You didn’t look at me. You didn’t talk to me. You treated me like I was on your shit list from day one.”

It wasn’t accusation this time. Just confusion. Honest and aching.

Bucky’s lips twitched—not in amusement. Just… exasperation. At himself.

“I never meant to make you feel that way,” he said. “I thought I was doing my job. Training you based on your stats. You’re… more capable than most, and I didn’t want to hold you back. That was it. And yeah, I’m not great at small talk, but I swear—I wasn’t ignoring you.”

You stared at him. Processing.

“Even the chili dog?” you asked, a faint smile threatening.

He cracked the smallest smirk. “Extra extra chili, no mustard. You looked like you were gonna pass out from hunger. Seemed like the least I could do.”

You looked down at the counter, your fingers inching closer to his. Slowly, purposefully, you touched your fingertips to the edge of his vibranium hand.

He didn’t move.

You swallowed.

“You know, Bucky,” you said, voice quieter now. “I liked what we had. That connection, when we didn’t know who we were. When it was just… voice and breath and instinct. Felt honest in a way nothing else has.”

You met his eyes again.

“I don’t want that to be ruined because I misread you. Because I let my anger get in the way. That’s on me. And I’m sorry.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. Not annoyed—just like he’d been holding that breath for days.

“I don’t want it to be ruined either.”

There was a pause.

You felt it first.

The shift in the air.

The hum.

Your thighs clenched, your body already remembering the sound of his voice, the weight of his moan, the way he said babe like it was a promise.

You leaned in slightly, just enough.

“In all honesty,” you murmured, “I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want us to stop. I mean, if you’re done with it, I’ll get it. But…”

You tilted your head, your voice a little more playful now.

“I’ve never liked a cock this much in my life. And that cock happened to be yours.”

That did it.

Bucky froze. Blinked. Then his ears went red—just a little. His jaw tightened, but not with anger.

The tension snapped.

And the room started heating up again.

Fast.

—

Your mind could barely register what had happened.

One second, you were sitting on a stool at his kitchen island—nervous fingers tracing your water glass, heart beating louder than the silence.

The next?

You were in his arms.

Your legs wrapped around his waist. Your back against the wall. His mouth on yours—crashing, pulling, devouring.

It was messy. A little rushed. Reverent in its desperation.

Like something ancient had finally been set into motion.

Like this wasn’t just inevitable—it was fated.

You clung to him, hands clutching the collar of his shirt, your mouth parting under his as he kissed you harder, deeper. Tongue slipping past your lips like he already knew what you tasted like.

He walked you backward, blindly, the metal plates of his vibranium arm pressed firm against your thigh. You barely noticed the shift until he sat down at the edge of his bed, dragging you down with him, your thighs straddling his lap like you’d always belonged there.

The kiss never broke.

Only deepened.

Your fingers dove into his hair, tugging hard at the roots, and he groaned into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—the metal one gripping your thigh tight, anchoring you to him, while the warm flesh one came up to cradle your jaw.

His thumb stroked slow, soothing circles into your cheek, a contrast to the way his mouth devoured you.

Then his hand slid lower.

Over your neck.

Down to your chest.

And then—he cupped your breast.

You gasped into the kiss. His thumb brushed over the peak through your shirt. He pulled back just slightly, breath ragged, eyes blown black with need.

“Fuck, doll…” he rasped. “You’re so soft.”

His palm squeezed gently, reverently, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“No bra?” he asked, voice hoarse, lips still grazing yours.

“Non-padded,” you whispered, your fingers finding his vibranium wrist and guiding it higher, sliding it over your other breast.

“Jesus,” he muttered, gripping it with care, the cool metal pressing through your shirt as he kneaded both like they were a goddamn miracle.

You reached down, starting to unbutton your shirt from the bottom.

But he stopped you.

His hand caught yours gently. “Lemme,” he breathed, already slipping the buttons open with a surprising ease, one by one, baring more of your skin with each.

When he pushed the fabric aside and saw the bra—thin, delicate, your nipples barely hidden—he groaned.

“Goddamn,” he whispered. “Been dreaming about this… for way too long.”

He reached around you, unhooking your bra with a flick of his fingers.

And when they spilled free?

He froze for half a second. Jaw tight. Throat flexing.

“Fuck me…” he muttered, his hands sliding back up to cup you properly now—skin to skin.

You were already grinding against him. Slow, controlled, your clothed pussy pressing against the thick ridge in his pants.

He let out a low sound. A growl.

Then dipped his head.

And devoured you.

His mouth latched onto one nipple, tongue swirling, lips sucking hard enough to make you arch into him. His metal hand squeezed the other breast, thumb flicking the peak in lazy circles.

You moaned, loud, fingers gripping his shoulders, nails dragging along the fabric of his shirt.

Every flick of his tongue sent electricity down your spine. Your panties were already soaked. The pressure in your core was unbearable. The need clawing at you from the inside out.

“Bucky—fuck—” you gasped, as he moved to your other nipple, worshipping it with the same urgency, same hunger.

He moaned in response, mouth full, pulling back only to whisper, “You sound even better like this. In real life. On top of me. Falling apart.”

You whimpered.

Because it was too good.

Too perfect.

You’d never had sex—not really. The only thing that ever “took” your virginity was a purple dildo named Tomdildody that lived in a shoebox under your bed.

But this?

This was everything Tomdildody could never be.

This was hot breath and strong hands and the delicious stretch of a man who wanted all of you. Not just your body—but the sounds you made. The way you shivered. The way you whispered his name like it was your final prayer.

Your thighs clenched tighter around him, your hips rolling now, slow but shameless, as his tongue dragged one last, greedy circle around your nipple before he looked up at you.

He was wrecked. Eyes dark. Lips slick. His hands still full of you.

You were already shaking.

And it was only the beginning.

—

You slid off his lap without a word.

Your body moved on instinct now—too hot, too full, too overwhelmed to think. You stood at the edge of the bed and peeled off your pants, one leg at a time, your soaked panties clinging to your folds before you yanked them down and tossed them aside.

Bucky followed your lead, rising from the bed like a force of gravity had pulled him up behind you. He undid his belt with one sharp pull, shoved his tactical pants down, and yanked off his boxers.

You froze for a beat.

They were the exact same ones from the FaceTime. Black. Faintly stretched at the waistband. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist and your pussy clench with anticipation.

He sat back down—legs spread, cock heavy and flushed between them. Thick. Glistening. Leaking at the tip like he’d been waiting hours for this.

You climbed into his lap again, bare skin on bare skin now, your knees pressing into the mattress as you straddled him. You sank down just enough for your soaked cunt to drag along the length of him, slow and hungry.

Wet, filthy squelches echoed in the quiet room. You both moaned—loud, ragged, desperate.

Your forehead dropped to his shoulder.

“Let me feel you, Bucky,” you begged, your voice shaking. “I need it. I need you. My pussy wants you so fucking bad…”

You rolled your hips against him again, your slick coating him, teasing him. Your walls clenched at nothing—frantic for him, aching to be filled.

His breath stuttered. Then he growled.

“Fuck, baby…”

He gripped your thighs—metal on one side, warm skin on the other—and lifted you just slightly like you weighed nothing. Then with one hand, he angled his cock and pressed the tip against your entrance.

And when he lowered you down?

Plop.

His cock slid in with ease—your body parting like it had been made to take him. Welcoming. Greedy. The stretch made your mouth fall open. He was thick, curved just right, sliding into you like a prayer answered.

Both of you moaned—loud.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching him. His hands stayed firm on your hips, anchoring you, grounding you.

“Jesus,” Bucky whispered, voice wrecked. “This feels so… unreal.”

He pulled out slightly, then slid back in with a guttural groan. “You feel like heaven, sweetheart. Fuck.”

You barely managed a sound—just a gasp, eyes fluttering shut as your walls clenched around him involuntarily.

“God, your pussy feels so good. So fucking good,” he murmured, his forehead dropping to your chest as he rolled his hips into you. “I wanna live here.”

You let out a sob of pleasure.

Because this—this was bliss. The kind of sex that made you forget time, space, rules. The kind that made your thighs shake and your stomach tighten and your soul hum.

You bounced on his lap in slow, messy thrusts. He met every movement with a snap of his hips, driving deeper each time. His cock rubbed every right place inside you, that slight curve hitting your sweetest spot again and again, forcing sounds out of you that you didn’t know you were capable of.

“Fuckfuckfuck—Bucky—oh my god—” you cried out, hands gripping the back of his neck, pulling him close like he could stop your body from combusting.

He moaned your name.

Over and over.

Like he was tasting it. Claiming it. Like it lived in his blood.

“Say it again,” you breathed, dizzy from the rhythm. “Say my name.”

He thrust up into you with purpose—sharp, needy—and whispered it like it was holy.

“Baby…” he gasped, voice shattering at the edges. “God, you feel so fucking good—fuck, I’m not gonna last.”

And then he said it—your name.

Low. Rough. Worshipful.

Like it wasn’t just something to call you, but something etched into him. Something his. He kept saying it, over and over, like it grounded him. Like it was the only thing he could hold onto as he drowned in the feel of you.

You were unraveling.

Clit grinding into the base of his cock with every drop of your hips. Slick running down his thighs. Your body clenching tighter around him with every thrust.

You didn’t care who heard.

You didn’t care who knew.

Because this was the best thing you’d ever done.

The most right thing you’d ever felt.

You were full of him. Wrapped around him. Buried in him. And as your orgasm started to crash through your belly in pulsing, blinding waves—

You knew this was more than just sex.

This was the beginning of everything.

—

You moaned into Bucky’s ear, breath hitching, hands clawing into his back.

“Baby, I’m so fucking close—harder, baby—don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

God, he didn’t.

His grip tightened on your hips, the vibranium fingers splayed with reverent strength, anchoring you to him as he bucked up harder, faster, deeper. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room—slaps, gasps, choked curses. Heat built between your bodies like friction could burn through time.

And then—

It hit.

Your orgasm shattered through you like something sacred. A wave that cracked your spine and left your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Your body trembled, clenching around him, pulling him deeper even as your climax dragged you under.

Bucky groaned into your shoulder, one final thrust before he pulled out, gasping through his teeth as he spilled across your belly, thick ropes hitting your skin, streaking your thighs. You could feel his chest rising and falling under you, faster than usual. Ragged.

And still—you collapsed against him. Boneless. Wrecked.

He caught you instantly. Wrapped both arms around your waist and held you close like you were something he’d been fighting to protect this whole time. His breathing slowed quickly—thanks to that goddamn serum—but you could feel something different in him. Something deeper than just release.

It wasn’t just sex for him.

It hadn’t been for you either.

You stayed like that for a long while—just breathing, just tangled. Your face buried in his neck, skin warm and slick with sweat and something else you didn’t have the language for yet. Something like peace.

Eventually, your arms slid up to hook around his shoulders, and you lifted your head—only just—to find his eyes. Those steel-blue eyes that always looked like they’d seen too much. But now?

Now they were soft. Glowing. Staring at you like you were some kind of beginning.

“That was…” you started, voice raw, shaky with the aftermath.

You paused.

Then you smiled, just a little.

“That was my first time.”

Bucky blinked. Like he hadn’t heard you right. Like the Earth had tilted sideways under him.

You touched his cheek, thumbing at the stubble there.

“And it was the best,” you whispered.

His throat bobbed. He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you, as if the words would never be enough. But you could feel it in his hands—the way he held you tighter. How he kissed your forehead, slow and reverent. Like you’d given him more than just your body.

You let him pull you under the blanket with him. Still bare. Still warm.

You curled into his chest, his arm wrapped snug around your back, your leg draped over his. One of his fingers traced circles into your spine, and he whispered things into your hair you couldn’t quite make out—murmured words like baby and you feel like heaven and can’t believe it was you.

And for once, there were no missions. No sirens. No grudge hanging heavy in the air.

Just the quiet weight of new beginnings.

You closed your eyes against his collarbone, and for the first time since joining this chaotic team, you let yourself rest.

Where it was safe.

Where it was warm.

Where he was.

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

Like to charge reblog to cast

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

You Deserve It

Warnings: non/dubcon, power dynamic abuse, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: boss!Bucky Barnes

A Birthday Gift for @navybrat817. Happiest of Birthdays to my dearest Navy. I hope it's a good one

Summary: your work on an assignment is rewarded.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

It's like you're the only one around here that cares. The only one putting in any effort. Your coworkers are friendly enough; good mornings and small talk in the coffee room and all the little courtesies. All pleasant and dandy but not very helpful.

You hide behind your monitor as your agitation brews. Celia is already clocking out and she was supposed to send you her expense report. Marty is chatting with Cameron about the ball game as he packs up his travel mug. He still didn't answer you about that partner agreement. And Deirdre finished at noon so she could take her kids up to the cottage.

You envy their nonchalance. They don't care about the dates come and gone or the blanks in your excel sheet. The wouldn't even be bothered to see the emails you get from the Chief Officer; curt and demanding.

Dammit. Whatever. You'll figure it all out yourself. As usual.

You have the receipts that Celia snapped on her phone. Her thumb makes it a bit hard to discern a few items. You pull up the business site and type in the product numbers.

The partner agreement. You'll put that once more as In Progress. You really can't call them up yourself and push the paperwork through. Marty can take it up with his supervisor.

Deirdre. Well, she's already had her disciplinary meeting. You'll see how that turns out. You need to worry about yourself.

You continue your exhaustive report. It's not within your job description to audit the entire department but that's no good excuse. If the CO says do it, you do it.

One time you explained to him your role. That should be Lucille. She's the accounts manager and it's her team that deals with all that. He gave you a deadline and walked away.

You yawn and rub your forehead as a few more stragglers shuffle out. It feels like you never stop. Breaks only get in the way of your momentum and when you do you home, you're desperately trawling the job boards for anything else. You really don't want to go back to front-facing roles. That stubbornness keeps you at your desk and keeps you stuck in this purgatory.

The clock in the corner of the screen fades into the back of your mind. This is starting to look correct. Or at least presentable. It almost seems like you know exactly what you're doing.

You filled in all the details with no help from the CO. Gross, net, expected, projection, risk. Some nights you stayed up reading about finance like you were back in college cramming for an exam. You never expected to miss those days but time can put a golden haze on anything.

You shift in the chair and hiss. Your shoulder is starting to tweak. You tend to grit down the tension between your teeth so it knots in the back of your neck and tugs at the nerve beneath your shoulder blade.

You're definitely way past those college days. You scoff at yourself. How did you ever manage those all nighters in those library chairs?

You slowly tilt your head back and whine as the muscle tweaks. You lean your head forward and reach behind your neck. Before you can find the tender spot, someone else does.

The thumb presses exactly where your neck plucks. You let out another pathetic noise.

"Working hard," Mr. Barnes clamps both hands on your shoulders as he stands behind you. His thumb curls into the knot.

"Sir," you try to raise your head, caught in a moment of weakness. The CO has a knack for it; like smelling blood in the water.

He leans down, his grip firm around your shoulders. He puts his head next to yours. You can smell his cologne, subtle but rich.

"Send it." He says and he drags his thumb down your tortured muscle. You quiver as a breath wisps between your lips. "We'll review in my office."

"Sir, I'm still working on it--"

"Progress report," he insists and presses so the nerve in your shoulder reverberates. You choke down the whimper.

He lets you go as he stands straight and marches away. You stare at the screen for a moment before you get your head straight. You change the share settings and add his email to the permissions.

You look around at the empty desks. It's just you. You get up stiffly. You walk with arms straight and your head locked in place. You desperately need to lay down.

The hallways feels endless as you walk to the very end and stop at Mr. Barnes' door. It's closed. You knock.

"In." He answers.

You twist the handle slowly so the clasp doesn't even click. You push inside cautiously and sidle through. You stand just inside the door.

"Close it." He demands without looking away from his screen.

You push the door shut gently and take another step inside. He points to the leather bench across from his desk. You step around it and sit. You fold your hands as you watch him.

His blue eyes skin the screen, reflecting the contents as little white squares shine in his pupils. His dark jacket is hung over the back of his chair. His crisp white shirt peeks out from under his black vest, his tie perfect and straight. You can't help but feel inadequate in the off-the-rack wrap dress in an obscure print.

"This isn't good." He says.

You bristle.

"Yes, sir."

He glanced at you.

"Spending is wasteful." He says. "Several of these deals have no contact."

"Yes, sir. This is based on what documentation I could retrieve--"

"The report is not the problem," he turns his chair to face you. "I appreciate the hard work."

You nod. You're waiting for the 'but'.

He gets up and slips his hands into his pockets. You watch, perched on the edge of the bench. He paces as he ponders the floor. He circles behind you and you keep your head straight. Even if you had the full to look, your neck can't handle it.

He startles you again as his hands settle on your shoulders. He squeezes. You moan.

"I..." You gasp. "Sorry."

He did his thumb behind the muscle and you yelp. You also your hand over your mouth. He continues to knead as you squirm.

"In can tell you've been working hard," he drawls.

You gulp as he rolls his thumb into the muscles. He bends his fingers to push his knuckle along you shoulder blades. You shake and another squeak escapes you.

"Unlock you jaw," he girds.

You bite down before you release. You don't know what else to do but obey. You know what happens to those who defy the CO directly.

"Good girl," he praises as he spreads his hands on your back. They feel bigger than you expect.

He slides them back up and once more curls his fingers over your shoulder. He angles them ups along your neck, index fingers pressing under your jaw. He traces his thumbs down the nape of your neck. You shiver and babble into your hand.

"You carry your stress right here," he says.

He wiggles his finger against the base of your neck. You spasm as you feel something loosen. You tear your hand away from your mouth and grip the bench.

"That's it..." He purrs as you push into his touch. "I can tell you've been working hard." He leans in as he keeps one hand on your neck and the other drifts down your front. "So have I."

He pushes his crotch against you. You feel his arousal hard against your back. Another gasp bubbles up.

He hushes you as he leans over you. He runs his thumb up and down your neck, untangling the tension as you tremble. His other hand brushes down to your chest and he growls.

He slips his fingers beneath the thin cotton blend and the padding of your bra. He gropes you as he rubs himself against you, rocking his hips just slightly.

"Mr. Barnes," you rasp, in shock.

"Shhh, you did a good job. Enjoy your reward."

He toys with you. Circling his thumb around your nipples, pinching it, humming as he feels your body respond. He tugs your dress and bra down beneath your tit, exposing you. He cups you again, bouncing the swell of flesh.

"You don't need this," he flicks his finger against the rumpled bra. "Got it?"

You shudder. "Yes, sir. I will... Take that feedback into consideration."

His fingers flutter further down. He presses his lips to your hair and purrs. He stops just along your stomach.

"Lift your skirt." He commands.

You pull up the fabric. Your thighs are quivering visibly. "Spread." He slaps just below your stomach, a love tap.

You pull your knees apart. Your spine arches just a little, instinctively. He trails his hand down and curves it along your cunt perfectly. Heat gathers in his large palm as you dampen your panties.

He keeps his other hand around one side of your neck and bends further to nuzzles behind your ear. His nose tickles along your jaw as his breath clouds around you.

He brushes over the thin cotton panties and traces the edge with a thick fingertip. He tugs them aside and you twitch at the sudden coolness glossing over your hot cunt. He delves between your lips without hesitation. You gasp as he snarls. You can both feel how wet you are.

He rubs you firmly; dragging his finger up around your clit and down to your entrance. He repeats the course along your cunt, teasing your clit with little spirals, smearing your shameless delight across your folds.

You moan helplessly as his teeth graze your throat. He bite you as he sinks a finger into your cunt. You squirm and he plunges deeper, down to his knuckle. You quake as your walls clench around him.

He drags his finger out slowly and pushes another against your entrance. He pushes in again. Your legs snap closed around his hand.

He tuts and pinches you with his teeth. You open your knees. He purrs and presses the heel of his hand against your clit. The roughness and the weight has you twitching once more.

He curls his fingers inside you and you close your eyes as the zip of electricity. You lean your head back, ignoring the tug in your shoulder. You lean back against him as he rocks his hand deliberately.

"That's it. Like that, doll." His lips tickle your neck as his breath stains your skin. "Let it out. Let it go."

You tilt your pelvis into him, rubbing against his hand eagerly. He groans and it rumbles through you. You bite your lip as your thighs tingle deliciously.

"Mr. Barnes," you mewl.

"Mmm, you're a good girl for me, aren't you?"

He hum past your lip as you brace the bench. He moves his hand faster. You can hear yourself clinging to him.

"Just like that, doll. I can feel it." He growls. "The way you're about to cum all over my office like a bad girl."

You whine as your head lolls. His words send you over the edge. Your insides tie up around his fingers and your thighs vibrate. The pressure releases in a burst of sparks, scattering up your stomach and down your legs.

You feel and hear the gush of your climax. It soaks his fingers and drips down your cunt and ass. You feel it seeping into your twisted panties as he coaxes you through the aftershock.

You heave and lean against him completely. Your shoulders and neck are loose. The pain is dull, almost indiscernible from the waves of pleasure still rippling over you.

He slides his fingers free and drags them up your pelvis. He brushes his hand up your torso and chest. He raises it close to your face and he leans forward. He pushes his fingers into his mouth and sucks loudly, popping his lips with a satisfied hum.

He stands straight and steadies you until you can sit up on your own strength. He squeezes your shoulders one last time. He struts around you and back behind his desk.

He sits, shifting, then pivots back to the screen. "You can go home. I expect you back nice and early... for your next assignment."

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

Spin the wheel. That's who's trying to kill you.

Spin the wheel again. That’s who’s trying to protect you.

(If you have zero idea about the name you got, spin until you see someone you recognize.)

(Six months ago, I did a version of this poll with about five hundred options on the spinner wheel. For this one, I more than doubled it.)

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

Never seen these before

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

my man is a stalker

pairing: neighbor!stalker!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: you never should've trusted your neighbor with a key to your apartment...

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), dark themes and elements, stalking, stockholm syndrome, smut, nonconsensual bondage, dubious consent, panty stealing/sniffing, panty gag, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, marking with hickeys, piv sex, unprotected sex, possessive sex, creampie, orgasm edging, choking, tit and nipple play, finger sucking, teasing, dirty talk, Bucky has a degradation kink, praise kink, pet names (doll, sweet girl, baby), aftercare, happy ending—let me know if i missed something!

word count: 5.9k

a/n: for week 11 of @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer, i had an idea for a soft dark!Bucky and y'all voted for him to be a stalker, so here we go!!! the little horny goblin in me took over on this one and this fic is pretty much just pure smut, so if the character stuff doesn't make sense (like if the reader makes choices that aren't fully earned) let's just go with it, ok!!! ok great, hope y'all enjoy!! ♡

prompt: "You look good like this." | [Marked Up | Tied Down | Ruined]

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

You never should’ve trusted your neighbor, Bucky Barnes.

You’d known from the moment you met him that he was too charming for his own good, too handsome for you to think rationally, and too earnest about knowing you for it to be normal. 

He was, to put it simply, too good to be true. 

With the benefit of hindsight, you could see the red flags—the way his eyes lit up with a feverish glint whenever you revealed something about yourself. At the time, though, you’d just felt flattered by his interest, that a man as good-looking as him cared so much to learn everything he could about you.

It had made butterflies take flight in your belly whenever Bucky’s attention was fixed solely on you, his blue eyes sparkling and so gorgeous you could get lost in them. It had made your heart soar whenever he was in the hallway or on the stairs at the same time as you, which happened more and more often the longer you lived in the building.

It had felt like fate, like you and Bucky were destined to be together. It seemed like it was only a matter of time before he’d make a move, but you never expected the move he ultimately made.

That was because you never would’ve guessed your charming, handsome, earnest neighbor was also your stalker. You never would’ve guessed that Bucky was monitoring your comings and goings and figuring out your schedule so he could purposefully run into you. 

In a million years, you never would’ve guessed that Bucky was using the spare key you’d given him to watch your plants while you were away to slip into your apartment when you were at work and steal your dirty panties. You had no idea he’d use that same key to let himself into your place and lay in wait for you to get home one night…

“You look good like this.”

Bucky Barnes was grinning shamelessly as he said those words, a dark glint in his icy blue eyes. His gaze was hungry, almost starved, as it raked over your prone, naked form.

He’d surprised you in the dark of your apartment, lunging out of a shadowy corner when you’d entered your pitch-black bedroom, coming home late from work on the same night of the week you always did. If you’d had the presence of mind, you might’ve cursed yourself for maintaining such a consistent schedule.

Bucky was strong—stronger than you expected—and you were no match for the way his thick arms banded around your body. He’d quickly clapped a hand over your mouth, preventing you from screaming for help. You’d fought, squirming and kicking in his arms, but it had done nothing except tire you out.

Before he’d started the process of undressing you and tying you up, Bucky had shoved a pair of panties in your mouth. You were so distracted by the way Bucky was tearing through your clothes that it took a while for you to realize the fabric in your mouth was soiled with more than your own natural fluids.

There was a salty, unfamiliar musk that seeped into your tongue. When you realized what you were tasting, and what it meant—that Bucky had jerked off into your dirty panties and you were tasting his cum—you went silent, too stunned to fight back anymore.

Warmth curled low in your belly, a pulse of desire throbbing between your thighs, even as your mind reeled. You refused to admit, even to yourself, that you liked the taste of Bucky’s cum. You refused to get off to the idea of Bucky wanting you so badly, he’d used your panties to bring himself pleasure.    

With your limbs pliant and your mind distracted by fighting against your body’s responses to Bucky’s taste, your neighbor was able to move you how he wanted to. By the time he’d flicked on the light on your bedside table and climbed onto your bed to join you, you were thoroughly tied down. 

Your body was bare, your wrists bound in thick cuffs and laying on the pillows above your head, the chain attached to your headboard. Meanwhile, your legs were spread as wide as they could go, your ankles secured with similarly thick cuffs, holding you open, putting you entirely on display for the hungry eyes of your neighbor, your stalker.

For the final touch, Bucky yanked the panties from your mouth, tossing them down to the foot of the bed, forgotten. He sat back on his haunches, his eyes raking greedily over every inch of your exposed skin while he kneeled between your spread thighs. 

You tried to struggle, to see if there was any give in the restraints Bucky had strapped you down in, but there was nothing you could do. You were entirely at his mercy…

Your pussy gave an eager pulse at the thought, and you immediately ignored your body’s response, glaring up at the man you thought you could trust.

“Fuck you.”

You hissed the words with as much venom as you could muster, your body trembling with rage—and something else you didn’t want to name. 

A wicked smile spread slowly across Bucky’s handsome face, and his blue eyes sparkled brighter. They were lit with a look that promised dark and depraved things were in store for you. 

Interest pulsed in your core and you could feel the first signs of gathering desire trickle down to your slit, but your glare never wavered.

“Aw don’t be like that, doll,” Bucky chastised you lightly, smoothing his palm down your inner thigh, as if trying to soothe you. A shudder wracked through your body with what you told yourself was disgust. “You’re going to enjoy this—I’ll make sure of it.”

“Never—I’ll never enjoy anything you do to me,” you hissed, refusing to acknowledge the way your body was warming to his touch. “You’re sick, you’re depraved, you’re a filthy pervert!”

Bucky groaned, his eyes sliding closed and his free hand gripping the thick, twitching bulge in his pants. “Fuck, doll, keep talking—you’re making me so fucking hard right now.”

Despite your better judgement, your eyes dropped to his lap and you felt a thrum of arousal flutter through your core when you saw how big and hard he was. He looked like he could fill you up real good and, if he knew how to use it, give you the type of hard fucking you craved.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you, sweet girl?” Bucky cooed, his voice taunting as he stroked himself through his pants. “You like the sight of my fat cock all thick and rock hard for you, huh? Bet it makes your pretty pussy leak for me—bet this slutty hole wants me to fill ‘er up,” he said, his thumb skimming close to where you craved his touch.

Biting back a wanton mewl, you glared up at Bucky from your prone position on the bed. Through sheer determination, you managed to keep the desire out of your expression and ignored the way wetness gathered and began dripping from your slit.

“It doesn’t make me leak for you,” you spit out through gritted teeth, seething with fury. Anger and shame burned through your blood, knowing you weren’t telling the truth, but you remained spitefully resolute not to give you stalker what he wanted. 

A low, filthy chuckle rumbled in Bucky’s chest, spilling from his perfect pink mouth and washing over your body in pure pleasure. The sound was so patronizing, your inner muscles clenched pathetically around nothing and you had to stifle another pitiful whimper. 

“I can see that you’re lying, doll,” Bucky said, his hand skimming further down your thigh until his thumb brushed against your lower lips. You sucked in a sharp breath, and tried to shift away from his touch, but you were tied down too well.

Oh so gently, Bucky ran the pad of his thumb up and down your slit, dipping just a tiny bit between your folds. The touch was so teasing, a whine worked its way up your throat, but you managed to bite it back at the last second. 

Then, he held up his thumb so that you could see it glisten in the soft, golden lamplight of your room. It was clear as day that what you’d said about not leaking for him was a lie—you were wet for him. The evidence was right in front of you. You were wet for your stalker.

“You can tell me you don’t want this, that you could never enjoy the touch of a filthy pervert,” Bucky began, playing with the wetness on his fingers before dropping his hand back to your mound and gathering even more of your juices. “But you’re a damn, dirty liar, doll. And by the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna know that we’re perfect for each other.”

Rage, shame and desire bubbled in your throat, making it difficult to speak, but you managed to spit out, “Never.” 

Before you could get the rest of your words out, though, they died on your tongue. They were lost to the sight of Bucky popping his thumb into his mouth, his eyes sliding closed with sinful satisfaction as he licked the taste of you from his skin.

You felt your traitorous slit drip a little more as you watched the far too erotic sight of your stalker tasting you for the first time. 

Bucky groaned, low in his throat, and your pussy trembled, begging for more of his touch. Something inside you cracked, and suddenly you couldn’t do it anymore—you couldn’t ignore the way desire was rushing through your blood. Your need was an insistent throb, hot and heavy, between your spread thighs. 

A whimper slipped from your lips unbidden and Bucky’s eyes flew open. Pulling his thumb from his mouth with a soft popping sound, he pinned you to the bed with his gaze just as surely as he’d used cuffs and chains to tie you down. 

His eyes were dark, and promised untold pleasure, but you were sure that if you gave in, it would mean selling your soul to the devil.

Your desires were a tangled mess behind your ribs, your need for Bucky warring with your determination not to give in. He was your stalker. He was your downfall, not your salvation. You had to stay strong, now matter how much you wanted to succumb to him.

Bucky watched the conflicting thoughts and emotions flicker across your face, reading you like a book, and a slow smile spread across his face. He shifted closer to you on the bed, until your thighs were propped up on his, the lap of his pants close enough to your core that you clenched with need. 

“Here’s how this is going to go, sweet girl,” Bucky started, so much confidence and authority in his voice that it settled something inside you. And when his hand skimmed down your thigh in a soothing gesture, your muscles relaxed slightly. “I’m going to ruin you.”

A gasp caught in your throat and Bucky paused, as if waiting for you to protest. When you didn’t immediately speak up, his grin widened and he squeezed your thigh in encouragement before going on.

“I’m going to ruin you so good, you’ll never want anyone but me, and you’re going to thank me for it,” Bucky rumbled, his gaze fixed on yours. “You’re going to promise you’ll be mine from this day forward. Forever. Do you understand me?”

You were already shaking your head before Bucky had even finished speaking, a challenge on the tip of your tongue. It was too much, he asked for too much. But…

A part of you yearned for what he promised. Your heart pounded hard in your chest because deep down, you wanted someone to own you in the way Bucky promised. 

Your neighbor might be more than a little unhinged, but it was intoxicating to have his devotion laid bare at your feet. 

The words you’d thought to voice turned to ash on your tongue, and Bucky’s grin hitched higher on his handsome face, turning almost feral. 

Leaning forward in a flash of movement, his hand wrapped around your throat, fingers digging into the sides of your neck just enough for your breath to catch in your throat. 

His blue eyes were sparkling with depraved desire as they raked over your face. 

“Do I need to gag you again, doll?” he asked darkly, the promise of a threat in his tone. “Or are you going to be a good girl for me and let me destroy that stubborn resolve of yours so we can be together?”

A not-so-small part of you wanted him to put the soiled panties back in your mouth as a gag, just so you could get another taste of him. That shocked you so much, and you were so tired of fighting, that when your lips parted to give Bucky your answer, what came out was a meek, “I’ll be good.”

The change in Bucky’s expression in response to your words was instantaneous, like the sun breaking through the clouds, and you were reminded all over again of just how devastatingly handsome your neighbor was. 

His gorgeous blue eyes softened with something like sweet affection as he stared at you, a smile tugging on the edges of his perfect, pink lips. His mouth was framed by dark scruff, which gave him just enough of a rugged look to offset the beauty of his face.

The way Bucky looked at you then, like you’d given him the most precious gift, damn near stole all the breath from your lungs. 

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, ducking down and pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You sucked in a surprised breath, the potent scent of his cologne going straight to your head, and felt his smile against your cheek. 

Then, he kissed you properly.

You were shocked by how gentle Bucky was. After he’d captured you in the dark, tied you up, and talked about ruining you, his kiss was astonishingly soft, his lips exploring you and coaxing you to kiss him back. His tongue slid tenderly along your lower lip, seeking entrance, and it was all too easy to give in.

You let yourself get swept away in the sweetness of Bucky’s kiss, the tang of your desire on his tongue adding an indescribable filthiness that offset the softness of his lips. Slowly, you opened up beneath him, the walls around your heart beginning to crumble as lust rushed in.

When Bucky finally pulled away, you lay there stunned, your lips parted and swollen from the rasp of his stubble. You blinked slowly, trying to reorient yourself. 

Your eyes were a little unfocused, and the sight of your stalker looming over you was softened around the edges. If it weren’t for the fervent glint in his eyes, he might’ve looked sweet.

“That’s a good doll,” Bucky cooed, ducking down to press a kiss to the underside of your jaw. 

He trailed more kisses down to your heaving chest, pressing his mouth firmly over the spot where your heart was racing beneath your sternum. He looked up, catching your eye and grinning at you while his hand cupped one of your tits, his thumb brushing teasingly over your hardened nipple.

“All ya gotta do is lay there and let me play with you,” he murmured, pinching your nipple and wringing a little cry from your lips that had his grin widening. “I’ve waited so long for this,” he said, almost as if to himself. 

Bucky’s gaze was greedy as it raked over your bare chest, flicking between your tits and your face, watching your reactions as he teased your nipples and groped your soft flesh. 

You were so distracted by the bolts of pleasure thrumming through your body, you almost missed the contemplative look on his face. But his next words brought you back to the moment.

“Now, where should my first mark go?”

The word ‘mark’ finally snapped you from the daze you’d fallen into, and all your muscles tensed again. Your eyes sharpened and stared at the looming form of your neighbor as he hunched over your body, his eyes roaming your skin as if he was looking for something. 

“Ma-mark?” The word came out in a breathless whisper, but instead of fear tinging your tone, there was only an eager interest that surprised you.

Bucky looked up, meeting your gaze, his mouth curving into a shameless grin that had a note of pride in it. “That wasn’t an immediate protest—have you decided not to fight me anymore, doll?” he asked, his tone teasing.

You didn’t want to answer that question, because you hadn’t decided anything yet. At least, you didn’t think you had. So you just watched him, your lips pressed into a thin line.

But Bucky didn’t seem deterred by your lack of answer. If anything, he seemed to take it as if you agreed you weren’t going to fight him anymore, and he let his gaze drift back to his perusal of your chest. 

“I”m gonna mark up your pretty body, sweet girl,” Bucky explained, flashing a grin when you let out a helpless whimper. “Gonna take my time leaving hickeys all over your body—they’re gonna remind you that you belong to me now.” 

You squirmed, your hips writhing on the bed and your arms and legs pulling on the cuffs restraining you. At first, you assumed your body’s reaction was disgust, that you were trying to get away from Bucky, but your pussy pulsed with need, and you realized you liked the idea of Bucky marking you up.

In your chest, your heart was pounding against your ribs, and what you felt wasn’t horror or distate, it was excitement. 

Bucky watched your face closely, his blue eyes sparkling with sinful perception, and he lowered his mouth to the top of one of your tits. Your stalker held your gaze as his lips latched onto your soft flesh, sucking and working your skin with his mouth and teeth.

Warm throbs of pleasure curled low in your belly with every pull of his mouth, and it took every ounce of strength in your body to keep your lips pressed closed. You didn’t want him to see any of the pleasure you were feeling from his sweet torture. 

But that seemed to only spur him on. He doubled his efforts, sucking a hickey into your skin until, when he pulled away, there was a dark shadow of a bruise on the swell of your brest. Your jaw dropped, your slit throbbed, and when your gaze slid to Bucky’s, his grin was unrepentant.

“Don’t give me that look, doll,” he scolded lightly, pressing a kiss to the newly formed bruise. “You’re mine—forever—and you’re going to understand that. Even if I have to mark up every inch of this gorgeous body.” 

His hands skimmed up your sides, stroking over your soft skin before cupping your tits in his big palms. He buried his face in them for a moment, groaning with barely contained lust before looking up and catching your eye. 

“I promised to ruin you, sweet girl, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

And Bucky Barnes was a man of his word. 

He took you apart piece by piece, breaking you down and stripping you even more bare than you already were with his mouth and his teeth and his tongue. He sucked marks into your skin until they littered your chest like stars in the night sky. 

It wasn’t until he finally made his way down to your soft belly that something inside you broke, and you let out a low, lewd moan. Your head was swimming in pleasure and desire, and you finally gave up all pretense that you didn’t want this man. This man who was your stalker.

“That’s it, sweet girl, that’s a good doll, moan for me,” Bucky rumbled before sucking another mark into your hip. “Let me hear how much you’re enjoying my mouth on you, how much you’re enjoying me marking you.” He sank his teeth into your hip bone, making you cry out and pull on the restraints.

Your entire body was trembling from need and desire, your chest heaving with panting breaths, your mind dizzy with pleasure and weakened resolve. By the time Bucky’s mouth made it to your pussy, you were a pitiful mess, desperate for him to lick you or fuck your or do anything to sate the hunger in your core.

He pressed the flat of his tongue to the seam of your cunt and dragged it up your soft folds, groaning when he tasted you straight from the source. A shiver raced down your spine at the deep, pleasured sound muffled against your damp skin.

You couldn’t help but watch with wonder in your gaze as he nuzzled his stubbled jaw into your warm, slick, swollen folds. His eyes were burning with blue fire when they flicked up to meet yours, a depraved, feral grin curving his sinful mouth.

“You’re fucking drenched for me, doll,” he teased lightly, sweeping his tongue along your slit again, making your whole body shudder with pleasure when he grazed your clit ever so lightly. “So wet I bet I could slide into your velvet-soft cunt in one smooth stroke, huh?”

In the farthest reaches of your mind, you were screaming to scoff at him, to not give in, but that voice was getting quieter and quieter the longer Bucky’s mouth was on you. As it was, all you could manage in response to his question was a helpless whine, your hips wiggling restlessly as you tried to grind against his face.

Bucky chuckled, like you were the cutest thing in the world, and his gaze dropped back to your pussy before he spoke again.

“Don’t worry, pretty girl, I’m gonna fill this hole soon enough,” he promised, rubbing your wetness into your skin, making a mess of your soft, swollen folds as he teased your entrance and clit with his fingertips. “All your holes are mine now, and I’ll make sure none of them ever feel neglected.” 

With that promise hanging in the air, Bucky dove into your cunt face first and all you could do was whimper—both from his words and the way he devoured you with his mouth. He feasted on you with the patience of a man who knew you weren’t going anywhere.

He licked and sucked on your folds, occasionally deigning to pay attention to your clit and give it the love you needed to rocket toward your release. Before you could get there, he’d pull back, easing you away from the edge. 

Then he’d slip his long, thick fingers into your pussy and work your body until you were panting and moaning and writhing beneath him on the bed.

But Bucky never let you cum. Every time you got close, your pussy fluttering around his fingers, your sounds of pleasure ratcheting higher, he’d ease you back down. 

It got to the point where that voice of protest in your mind was entirely silenced and you’d accepted you were completely at the mercy of your stalker—and you desperately wanted him to give you what you needed.

“Bucky, please!” you snarled, after the third or fourth time he’d edged you, your voice anything but nice as you yanked impatiently on the cuffs binding your wrists. Your headboard knocked against the wall, but you paid it little mind, too focused on glaring at the man between your thighs.

After a long, torturous moment, Bucky lifted his head slowly, giving you an insolent, heavy-lidded look that went straight to your pussy, your slit throbbing as more wetness leaked down to your ass. 

His gaze was unfocused until he blinked, staring up at you almost like he was annoyed at you for interrupting his fun.

“Need something, doll?” he drawled, his fingers pumping leisurely in and out of your hole, making soft, obscene sounds because you were so wet. 

“You know what I need, you sick, perverted jerk,” you hissed, your face contorting into what you hoped was a glare, but suspected was a needy look. Frustration was pulsing angrily through your body, craving release, and it was making you desperate.

Bucky watched you, like he was trying to figure you out, but then his mouth curved into a wolfish grin.

“Oh I see what you’re doing, doll,” he said, sounding like he was in on the joke. “You’re calling me those names to make me hard so I’ll fuck you, huh?” 

He waited for your response, but you kept your mouth firmly closed, refusing to give him the pleasure of acknowledging he’d seen right through you. His grin widened.

“All ya had to do was ask, sweet girl—I live to serve you.” Bucky pressed one last kiss to your pussy and then he was sitting up.

He made quick work of yanking his shirt off, then undoing his jeans and shoving them down around his thighs. When his thick cock bounced free, smacking wetly against your pussy, your head tipped back and you bit off a strangled, desperate moan.

Bucky rocked his hips forward and back, dragging the heavy weight of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your clit and drenching himself in your juices. He grunted, using his thumbs to press his shaft deeper between your swollen lower lips, his gaze fixed on the sight. 

“Y’know, I’ve dreamed about this for months. Laying in bed, stroking my cock to thoughts of you,” he said, his tone casual, almost conversational, but there was a hitch of excitement in his voice—and it made you feel powerful to know you had such an effect on him. “I’m sure you’re feeling real needy, doll, but I still think I want this more.”

It was on the tip of your tongue to protest, to argue with Bucky that there was no way he wanted to fuck you more than you wanted him to fuck you, but you bit it back at the last second, realizing how it would sound. He was your stalker, you reminded yourself, still trying to pretend you didn’t want him.

Bucky seemed to sense your inner battle because he fisted his cock and smacked the heavy length against your pussy. At the same moment, his other hand slid around your throat, fingers squeezing gently until your eyes found his and you stared up into his sinful, sparkling blue gaze.

“You’re mine,” he reminded you, and his words holding a surprising amount of comfort, settling the protests brewing in your mind. “You belong to me, now and forever—and you’re going to take my cock like a good girl, isn’t that right, doll?” 

Your chin dipped, brushing against the back of his hand as you nodded, watching a sweet sense of satisfaction bloom in Bucky’s eyes. He gave your throat a squeeze of encouragement, and you could feel the praise in his fingertips as he ducked down for a quick kiss. 

Then he sat back up, pinning you to the bed with his hand around your throat, and his cock against your pussy. He took a moment to rake his eyes over your prone form, appreciating the sight you presented to him with your limbs strapped down to the bed, your legs spread open for him.

“Oh, this is so much better than I always imagined,” he said in a soft murmur, almost to himself. The naked affection in his tone warmed your heart, and you had the urge to thank him, but before you could respond, the moment was over and he was moving.

Bucky notched the tip of his cock at your entrance and he pushed inside. Even with how wet you were, it was a stretch to take him. Your mouth formed a little ‘o’ as he slid inside, his cock filling you up until you were so full of him, you didn’t know where you ended and he began.

“That’s it, that’s my girl, you’re taking me so fucking well, doll,” Bucky rasped, his voice devolving into a groan of pleasure when he finally buried himself to the hilt. “Oh fuck, that’s good.” 

His head hung down, and he swayed a little above you, like he was overcome by the sensation of your pussy wrapped around his cock. Truthfully, you felt a little dazed yourself. You couldn’t believe how good it felt, how perfectly he fit inside you, stretching you enough to feel it but not hurt you. 

Fuck, it was so good. Your stalker’s cock felt so, so good inside you that you didn’t want him to ever not be buried balls-deep in your pussy.

“This cunt is mine now, baby, d’you hear me?” Bucky’s voice was dark and deep and when you glanced up at him, his blue eyes blazing with an intensity that made your heart and pussy flutter.

“Yuh huh,” you mumbled, unable to stop yourself from agreeing. All the fight had been drained out of you by Bucky’s mouth leaving hickeys all over your body, and his cock pushing all thought of protest from your mind. 

“Let me hear you say it, doll, say your cunt belongs to me,” Bucky growled, his eyes alight with a feral gleam, like he knew you were right on the edge of giving everything to him. He choked you lightly again, encouragement in the grip of his hand on your throat. “Admit it, sweet girl—you’re mine.” 

Your resolve had crumbled to dust, it had collapsed under the weight of the pleasure Bucky offered. He filled you up so good, he’d marked you as his, and he felt so perfect, like he was made for you just as much as you were made for him. It was true, you belonged to him, and you were finally ready to accept it and say it.

“My cunt belongs to you, Bucky,” you said, your gaze focusing on your stalker until all you saw was him, the depraved glint in his eye and the pleased smirk on his face. It matched the perverted, needy spark in your heart. “I belong to you, James Barnes—I’m yours. Forever.”

A look of stunned surprise flitted across Bucky’s face, like he hadn’t expected you to actually give in, but it was quickly chased away by soulful exuberance. The grin that spread across his face was nearly blinding, and he ducked down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, one that felt like sealing your vows of eternal devotion.

“You are, you’re mine. Forever,” Bucky rasped against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours. “And I’m yours, I’m entirely yours—my body belongs to you, my heart belongs to you, my soul belongs to you,” he vowed. “I am yours.”

Emotion swirled through your chest, Bucky’s words opening up your heart in a way you never expected. He’d crawled into your soul and made a home, and it was a relief to know that he was yours just as surely as you were his.

A sob of happiness tore from your lips, tears splashing down your cheeks and Bucky kissed them all away, cooing sweet words in your ear. His hips began to move, fucking you in slow, deep thrusts that made your toes curl.

Something desperate and needy flickered through your body and you tugged on the cuffs holding your wrists above your head. “Please, Bucky,” you begged, catching his eye and giving him a meaningful look. “I want to touch you, please let me.”

Immediately responding to your words, Bucky reached up and flicked a release on the cuffs. Suddenly, your hands were free, and you wasted no time wrapping your arms tightly around his shoulders, your fingers digging into his soft brown hair.

You tugged him close, until his broad body was flush against your softer one, your mouths brushing as you snarled, “Mine.”

He chuckled, the corner of his mouth flicking up in a grin. “Mine,” he repeated, fucking you harder until you were letting out little ‘uh, uh, uh’ sounds against his lips. “My sweet girl, my pretty doll, my perfect, perverted match.”

You lifted your hips as much as you could to meet his thrusts, your ankles still restrained to the bed, sobbing your pleasure and chanting, “My man, my man, my man,” over and over again. 

Bucky pounded into you with everything he had, his hips thrusting flush against your core, the base of his cock grinding against your clit until you were seeing stars. Your chanting words cut off in a high-pitched cry, and Bucky groaned his pleasure, crooning into your lips that you were all his.

You came undone like that, shattering around Bucky’s cock while he kissed you, swallowing your sounds of pleasure like he was a starving man and they were the only sustenance he needed. Your body shook with the intensity of your release, and he held you through it, fucking you harder, his hips falling out of rhythm as he chased his own pleasure.

He followed you over the edge a moment later, groaning his release into your lips as his cock twitched inside you, drowning your pussy in his cum. You licked the sound of pleasure from him mouth, greedily drinking it down and savoring it like it was the most delicious, delectable treat you’d ever tasted. 

The two of you writhed together, eking out every bit of pleasure from your releases as you kissed hungrily. It wasn’t enough, it didn’t feel like you’d ever get enough of Bucky. You could feel an obsession with him and his cock blooming deep in your heart and soul, and you couldn’t be bothered to fight it. He was yours, after all.

When you and Bucky were finally sated, he released your ankles from their bindings and the cuffs quickly fell away. He rolled onto his back, taking you with him, massaging the muscles in your arms and legs to ensure they recovered from being restrained. 

A soft smile curved your mouth and you buried your face in Bucky’s bare chest, inhaling the scent of him and enjoying the feeling of his touch. You lay, pliant and happy, on top of him, his cock still inside you as his cum seeped out around his softening length. 

“Say it again,” Bucky murmured into your temple before pressing a kiss there. His stubble rasped deliciously against your skin and you couldn’t help the soft giggle that erupted from your lips. 

“I’m yours, Bucky, all yours,” you said, giving him what he’d asked for you. “Thank you for ruining me, for marking me as yours—thank you for keeping me. Forever.”

Bucky made a pleased sound in his throat, then his finger pressed beneath your chin, tipping your face up so he could see you. The edges of his mouth were curled in a gentle smile, and he looked so handsome in that moment, it took your breath away. 

“I’m yours, too, sweet doll,” he vowed, his voice low and rumbly and so earnest you felt your heart throb in response. “All yours, only yours, forever. I’m your man—your filthy pervert, your depraved stalker.”

You giggled into his kiss. “My man is a stalker, and I might be a sick freak because I like it.” 

“You’re my sick freak,” Bucky said, his voice filled with affection as he wrapped you up tightly in his thick arms. He pressed another kiss to your lips and then urged you to settle down and get some rest. 

You fell asleep in the arms of your neighbor, your stalker, your man—Bucky Barnes.

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

I’m...I’m sorry, I just this minute realized that there are people out there who have no idea that Heinz Doofenshmirtz is the best fictional father out there. You guys don’t mind if I bombard your entire dashboard with proof right? Excellent.

BONUS: Doofenshmirtz around children he literally just met who wrecked his ‘inator’.

Literally I could go on and on with examples but my computer’s starting to crash from the amount of images.

The point is that Heinz Doofenshmirtz is the greatest fictional father out there and anyone who says otherwise was hit by a Lie-inator.

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

I feel this 😢

okay but bucky with postpartum reader who just had a c section, she feels like shit , her scar bothering her, she feels insecure all she does is wear baggy clothes to hide herself just a lot of fluff and smut

he would be so attentive🥹

----------

The first time you let him see you after the surgery was an accident.

You hadn’t meant to. It was three weeks since the birth, your incision still an angry red slash across your lower belly, tugging every time you sat up. Your days were a blur of feedings and diaper changes and the quiet hum of the baby monitor. You lived in oversized sweatshirts and loose cotton shorts, hiding the body you weren’t sure you recognized anymore.

But that morning, you’d just gotten out of the shower when you realized you’d left your towel in the bedroom. You padded in, damp hair dripping, one arm clutching your robe closed, only to find Bucky sitting on the edge of the bed with your daughter in his arms.

His eyes found yours instantly. Not just yours—lower, catching the moment the robe slipped enough to show the top edge of the scar.

You froze. Tugged the fabric tight. “Don’t,” you whispered before he could speak. “I look—” You bit it off, the words bitter on your tongue.

“You look like the woman who just gave me the best gift of my life,” he said softly, voice so sincere it knocked the breath out of you.

You shook your head, staring at the floor. “I look ruined, Buck. This scar… my stomach… I can’t even—”

He shifted the baby into her bassinet, stood, and crossed to you in three long steps. His metal hand was cool as it cupped your jaw, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet those blue eyes.

“You’re not ruined,” he said, low and steady. “You’re here. You’re strong. You made her.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. “It’s ugly.”

Bucky’s thumb brushed over your cheek. “Then I love ugly things now. Guess that makes me a lucky guy.”

You huffed a watery laugh despite yourself, and he took that as permission to pull you closer. The robe loosened again, and this time he didn’t look away. His gaze dropped to your scar—gentle, reverent.

“Can I?” he asked.

You hesitated. Then, slowly, you nodded.

He knelt in front of you like you were something holy, pushing the robe aside and lowering your waistband just enough. His metal fingers were careful, almost hesitant, tracing the line of the incision without touching the tender skin.

“She’s here because of this,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over the edge of it. “You went through hell to bring her here. How could I ever think this is anything but beautiful?”

Your breath caught, the shame and self-consciousness tangling with something warmer.

When he finally looked up, his eyes were dark in that way you knew meant trouble. “I’ve missed you,” he admitted. “Not just touching you—seeing you. All of you.”

Your first instinct was to protest, to remind him you were sore and tired and definitely not ready for anything like before. But then his hand slid around to your lower back, supporting you like you were something fragile.

“I’m not asking for sex,” he said quickly, reading your hesitation. “Not unless you want it. I just… wanna make you feel good. Wanna remind you you’re still mine.”

That last word sent a little spark right through your exhaustion.

You let him guide you to the bed, lying back against the pillows while he stretched out beside you. His metal hand stayed on your hip, grounding you, while his flesh one cupped your face. He kissed you slowly, deep and lingering, until you melted into it.

When his lips left yours, they trailed down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. You shivered as he pulled your robe open, letting it fall away. He took his time, kissing every stretch mark, every curve, until he reached your stomach.

“This body,” he murmured between kisses, “is perfect.” His mouth was warm against your skin, his scruff tickling as he brushed over the scar again, lingering there until you sighed.

It was almost too much—the tenderness, the way he worshipped you like you’d hung the moon.

Your hand slid into his hair. “Bucky…”

He looked up, and whatever he saw in your face made him smile. “Lie back, doll. Let me take care of you.”

His touch was slow, patient. His hands stroked your thighs, easing them apart just enough for him to settle between them. You weren’t ready for anything rough, and he didn’t push—just kissed along the inside of your thigh, higher and higher, until his breath was hot against your core.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, heat curling low in your belly. “Yeah.”

The first brush of his tongue made you gasp. He was gentle, unhurried, mapping every inch of you like he had all the time in the world. His hands held you steady, one on your hip, the other resting just below your scar, a quiet reminder that he loved every part of you.

You tried to keep quiet, mindful of the baby sleeping a few feet away, but when he sucked lightly on your clit, a soft moan slipped out.

“That’s it,” he murmured against you. “Let me hear you.”

He built you up slowly, coaxing each shiver and gasp, until the tension coiled tight inside you. When you came, it was with a quiet, breathless cry, your fingers curling in his hair as you trembled.

Bucky didn’t let go immediately—he kept kissing you softly, easing you down from the high before crawling back up to gather you in his arms.

You lay there against his chest, the steady beat of his heart under your ear, his lips pressing to your hair.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” he said after a moment. “Ever. I love every inch of you. Especially the ones you think I shouldn’t.”

You looked up at him, still flushed, and managed a small smile. “You’re too good to me.”

He shook his head. “No, doll. I’m exactly as good to you as you deserve.”

The baby’s soft cry broke the moment, and you moved to sit up, but Bucky caught your hand. “Stay. I’ve got her.”

You watched him cross the room, scoop her up, and settle back beside you, the three of you tangled together under the morning light.

And for the first time since the surgery, you didn’t think about your scar at all.

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

THE 355 (2022) dir. Simon Kinberg ↳ Sebastian Stan as Nick Fowler

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

a beautiful, perfect summer day

pairing: best friend!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: your best friend takes you out in his sailboat on a beautiful summer day, and it turns into the perfect day when your relationship is taken to a new level.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, slightly painful sex, outdoor sex, semi-public sex, creampie, cockwarming, big cock, size kink, tit and nipple play/worship, finger sucking, some dacryphilia, sadism/masochism undertones, some dumbification, some objectification, dirty talk, praise kink, some degradation, daddy kink, pet names (sunshine, baby, pretty girl), aftercare, friends to lovers, some feelings, happy ending

word count: 5.9k

a/n: for week 10 of @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event, y'all voted for some summer shenanigans on a boat, so here we are! honestly, i'd originally imagined this fic taking place on a boat, but then i started thinking of other fun summer locations and i couldn't decide which i liked best, so thank you all for helping me out! i hope y'all enjoy some best friend!Bucky smut set on a boat ♡

prompt: "I can’t." | [Big Cock | Anal Training | Forced Orgasm]

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

Bright yellow sunlight shone down on the sailboat, its white mast reaching toward the big, blue, cloudless sky and its sail catching the pleasant ocean breeze. The water lapping gently against the hull was cool to the touch, refreshing on that hot afternoon, and giving the fresh air a hint of salt.

It was, by all accounts, a beautiful, perfect summer day, with wonderful weather and an idyllic view—and you were ignoring all of that. Your attention was fixed entirely on your best friend, Bucky Barnes.

“I can’t!”

Your cry carried out over the gentle ocean waves, and you barely had the presence of mind to bite off the desperate whine that followed. 

There hadn’t been any other boats nearby when you’d last looked, but you weren’t exactly paying attention to your surroundings—and you didn’t know how far your voice could carry across the water.

A wolfish grin spread across Bucky’s handsome face, mischief sparkling in his blue eyes, and his fingers dug deeper into your plush hips. With your legs straddling his lap, he pressed your body down until the tip of his cock pushed a little deeper into your tight pussy. 

You let out a low, lewd moan, your face tipping up toward the sun as your eyes rolled back in your head. It was too overwhelming, too much. He was—

“Too big,” you gasped, your voice breathless as you tried to get used to the stretch of him making room for his cock in your tight cunt. He was barely an inch or two inside you and it already felt like he was splitting you open. “You’re too big, Bucky.” 

Your words were a pathetic whine, and it took a great deal of effort to lift your head and meet your best friend’s eyes. His brows were drawn together with fake concern, and his eyes were glittering with hunger and amusement.

“I know, baby, I know,” he cooed, leaning in and pressing a soothing kiss to your cheek. The rough stubble on his jaw brushed your soft skin and you whimpered, your pussy fluttering around the head of his thick cock. “My dick’s so big, huh, it’s opening you up so good? It’s making that tight little hole stretch for your best friend’s big cock, huh?” 

At his filthy words, you whined louder, uncaring if anyone was around to hear you. Bucky’s only reaction was to chuckle huskily, unmoved by your crying.

Your fingernails dug into the gray cotton t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, finding his skin beneath and latching on. You wanted him to feel some semblance of the sting you were feeling, but he didn’t even flinch when your nails dug in—which, for some reason, made you hotter.

Despite the stinging, aching stretch between your thighs, you didn’t actually want Bucky to stop. You knew he would if you asked, but you were growing quickly addicted to the overwhelming feeling of your best friend’s cock splitting you open.

So you spread your knees wider on the white vinyl bench seat of the boat, lowering your hips down to take another inch of Bucky’s cock, forcing your pussy to stretch to take even more of him. 

“That’s it, good girl, take me deeper,” Bucky purred, leaning back so he could look down at where your pussy was spread open on his cock. “Fuck, look at you, your pussy’s so pretty stretched around my cock.”

A helpless whimper tumbled from your lips, your hands curling into fists in Bucky’s shirt and tugging on the fabric until he looked back up at your face. You could feel tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, and you watched his eyes darken at the sight of you crying on his cock.

Bucky sat up, cupping your cheek in one hand, the other busy holding your dress bunched up around your hips and out of the way. He brushed his lips to yours in a chaste, sweet kiss that was so at odds with the depraved way his hard length was splitting you open, it made your pussy flutter around the head of his cock.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” he cooed, pressing another kiss to your lips, then another to the corner of your mouth. “You’re taking my cock so good, you’re such a good girl for me—taking your best friend’s cock like your tight cunt was made for this.” 

His lips brushed over your cheeks, kissing the tears from your skin as he continued to murmur praises for your ears only. 

After a few moments of Bucky’s sweet treatment, you settled down enough to stop crying. He urged you to take a deep breath, and you did, blinking the remaining tears from your lashes and peering at the familiar face of your best friend.

“Y’know, this really isn’t what I had in mind when I invited you sailing today, sunshine,” he said, his eyes darting across your face as if checking to see if you were going to start crying again. 

When you didn’t, he wrapped an arm around your lower back and gathered you closer against his chest, his cock slipping from your aching hole until only the tip barely remained inside. You breathed a soft sigh of relief, even as your pussy throbbed in protest. 

“I just wanted to spend a day on the water with my pretty best friend,” Bucky went on, brushing a kiss to your temple, and another a little lower to the corner of your eye. “Just drinking some cocktails, eating some snacks and enjoying the day together.”

You lifted your head, your pouty lips coasting over his bristly jaw before finding his mouth. You could feel the smile on his lips, and you pressed a kiss to the curl at the corner of his mouth. 

“I never expected the day to go like this,” he confessed, his voice low and rough, sending tremors of need racing down your spine to settle between your thighs. “I never imagined you’d let me have you like this.”

Bucky’s hand on your hip guided you back down on his hard length, and you were relieved to feel it was easier for his cock to slide inside you, pressing just a little deeper. He caught your moan as he plunged further into your pussy, kissing the sound from your lips.

Your best friend’s tongue licked into your mouth, tasting like the peachy, citrusy cocktail he’d made for the two of you to sip as he sailed the boat and you both snacked on cheese and crackers and thinly-sliced meats. It had been a perfect summer day, and it was only getting better.

Another desperate moan worked its way up your throat, and Bucky deepened the kiss, claiming you with his tongue and his mouth, drinking down your sounds of pleasure. You lost yourself in the kiss, your mind wandering to how you’d ended up in his lap, his cock pressing into your pussy.

The bubbly, alcoholic drink Bucky made had gone to your head quickly, filling you with a hungry restlessness that always came over you when you were a little bit drunk around your best friend. Before you’d known what you were doing, you were climbing into Bucky’s lap and kissing him.

At first, you’d only wanted a kiss. 

Bucky had looked so impossibly handsome in his gray cotton t-shirt and light linen pants, his blue eyes shining in the bright summer sunshine. And he’d looked so capable as he’d sailed the boat out onto the water, the muscles in his arms flexing as he worked the ropes and tied them off. 

It wasn’t your fault that your best friend was so hot—and the fact that he was showing off his sailing skills only made him hotter. You’d waited as long as you could before you’d jumped him. Really, it was impressive you’d waited as long as you had.

After all, it wasn’t like it was the first time you’d drunkenly made out with your best friend.

There’d been a handful of solen moments over the years, at house parties in college and in dark corners of dive bars during the time since. It had never gone further than that, but you were kidding yourself if you said you didn’t want to do much more than kiss your best friend.

Still, that afternoon on the boat had started off with the two of you only kissing. 

Your arms had wound around his shoulders, fingers tangling in his dark hair as your mouths slid together. It had seemed like it would end there, with just another hot and heavy make out session with your best friend.

But then you’d settled more firmly in his lap, your knees spread wide on either side of his hips, and you’d felt the bulge growing in the front of his pants. And, fuck, he’d felt so good, so big—bigger than anyone else you’d ever been with before.

You couldn’t help but be curious, and you couldn’t stop yourself from humping against Bucky’s big cock, delighting in the way he’d grown harder for you. It was intoxicating, feeling the way his body had responded to yours, the way his fingers had clung desperately to your hips, helping you grind on his hard length. 

From there, one thing had led to another…

“Oh god, Bucky, I don’t—you’re too big, I can’t,” you babbled, tears springing to your eyes at the aching stretch of his cock filling you up even more. You looked at your best friend through watery eyes, but he only chuckled at your mindless whining. 

Bucky pressed his grin into your cheek, nipping playfully at your jaw. “You can, sunshine,” he promised, his voice low and steady. He sounded so sure, you couldn’t help but believe him. “You can take it all if you really want to.” 

A helpless whimper tumbled from your lips, and Bucky chuckled again. His mouth brushed against yours, licking your whimpers from your lips. 

“Do you want to, baby?” he cooed sweetly. “D’you wanna take all of daddy’s big cock in your tight little cunt?”

“Oh fuck,” you moaned softly, closing your eyes and tipping your face up toward the summer sunshine. 

Heat that had nothing to do with the sun licked down your spine as the sound of that nickname falling from your best friend’s mouth went straight to your pussy. You could feel yourself tighten around his thick length where he was partly buried inside you, your pussy growing wetter and making the slide of his cock even easier. 

Bucky chuckled into the underside of your jaw, muffling his laughter against your skin. “Oh you like that, don’t you, sunshine?” he teased. 

His hand slid up your side until he could cup your cheek, and then he was tugging your face back down toward his. Your eyes fluttered open, finding him watching you, a hungry smirk on his face and an affectionate glint in his eye. 

“Ya like the idea of calling me daddy, huh, baby?” he cooed patronizingly as his eyes searched your face, gauging your reaction. “Am I your big, mean daddy, pretty girl? Your big, mean daddy making you take all of my big, mean cock?”

Your face went slack, your vision softening until you stared unseeingly at your best friend, your head filled with gummy clouds of pleasure. A whine was all you could manage in response to Bucky’s questions, but that didn’t seem to be enough for him.

His thumb pressed to your chin, swiping along the line of your lower lip and gently drawing you back down to earth. 

You blinked once, then again, before the sight of your best friend focused again. His eyes were sharper, his brows drawn with a bit of real concern.

“I need words, sunshine,” he said, watching you carefully. “Tell me what you want—I want you to enjoy this so you’ll wanna fuck me again, because I don’t think once is gonna be enough. Not with a best friend as pretty as you.” His thumb brushed along your cheek and Bucky stared at you, genuine affection in his gaze.

His sweet words had you softening, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of your mouth and you slid your hands up his shoulders to the side of his neck. Your nails raked gently through the hair at the nape of Bucky’s neck while you figured out how to put your wants into words.

“I want you, Bucky,” you whispered. 

Holding his gaze, you caught his thumb with your lips, taking it into your mouth. You gave it a sweet suckle and a playful bite, watching his lips part as he sucked in a sharp breath, his blue eyes darkening with lust until they were as murky as the ocean. 

“I want your big cock, daddy,” you went on, speaking so softly, you weren’t sure he heard you, but Bucky’s low, rumbling groan when you called him daddy told you he did. “I want it to hurt, just a little, and I want it to feel like I can’t take it, but you insist I can—I want you to help me take it, I want to be your good girl.”

“You’re such a good girl for me, baby,” Bucky purred as soon as you finished speaking, pulling you in for another deep kiss. You tasted his praise on his tongue and smiled into the kiss. “You take me so well,” he said when he pulled back. “You feel so tight and warm and perfect on my cock.”

Your smile grew and you ducked your head, suddenly feeling a little shy. Even though you’d known Bucky a long time, you’d never been with him like this, and it was making your heart feel warm in your chest, something blooming in your belly that you weren’t quite ready to name just yet.

Bucky chuckled, the sound low and warm, and he cupped your cheek, guiding your gaze to lift back to his. His mouth was curved into a charming smile, and for a moment he just stared at you, like he could be happy just looking at your face for the rest of the afternoon. 

It made you squirm in his lap, which made his cock shift inside you. Before you could help yourself, your eyes were sliding closed and a soft moan was slipping from your lips. Bucky laughed again, though it was more strained than it had been a moment ago.

“You can take more of my cock, can’t you, baby?” he rasped, his voice sounding so husky, you opened your eyes. You were rewarded with the sight of your best friend looking half unraveled, a desperation in the lines of his face that sparked more warmth between your thighs. 

Bucky waited until you gave a quick nod, and then he was pulling your hips down further on his hard length, his cock sinking another few inches into your pussy. 

It stung so bad, the stretch of him splitting your tight hole open so devastating, it stole the breath from your lungs. A desperate, pleading whine spilled from your mouth, and your hips squirmed as you tried to get away from the pain, even as a part of your relished it. 

But Bucky held you firm, one hand still cupping your face so he could watch the pleasure and pain dance across your features while the other kept your dress out of the way. Every few seconds, his eyes dropped to where his cock was disappearing inside your body, a grunt of pleasure sounding in his throat. 

When you mewled again, your knees shifting wider on the vinyl seat of the boat, Bucky pulled you close, pressing his forehead to yours as he cooed softly at you.

“I know, sunshine, my cock’s so big, but you’re doing so good for daddy, being such a good girl,” he murmured sweetly against your mouth. “Just take a deep breath—can you do that for me, baby?”

You were so lost in the sensation of Bucky’s cock filling your tight hole and making room for his hard length in your body that it took you a moment to understand his question. When you did, you sucked in a deep breath, catching Bucky’s gaze as you exhaled slowly.

At that exact moment, Bucky yanked your hips down on his lap until your bare ass met his thighs. 

A sharp, surprised cry tore from your lips, and Bucky quickly covered your mouth with his, silencing the sound of your pain-edged pleasure and drinking it down greedily. Your cry devolved into a debauched moan when Bucky’s tongue slipped into your mouth and you sucked on him, distracting yourself from the throbbing between your thighs.

Your pussy ached from the sudden stretch of your best friend’s cock filling you up so fast, but it felt good. Your inner walls fluttered around the thick shaft of Bucky’s cock, like your body was trying to suck him even deeper, though you were almost certain he was as deep as he could possibly go. 

You squirmed in Bucky’s lap, another moan rising up your throat at the feeling of his cock shifting inside you, but your best friend’s arms wrapped around your lower back, pinning you firmly to his lap. All you could do was sit there, impaled on Bucky’s cock while he kissed you breathless. 

“Fuck, you’re so good for me, sunshine—you’re such a good cocksleeve for daddy,” Bucky rumbled, trailing kisses along your jaw. “Your tight little cunt opened up so perfectly for me, huh?”

Your head bobbed in a simple nod, a mumbled, “Uh huh,” falling from your lips and making Bucky smile against your cheek. Your heart fluttered in your chest and your pussy pulsed with happiness. 

“Your pussy loves this, baby, I can feel it,” he said, squeezing you tight in his arms, his scruff rasping over your skin. “I can feel how much you’re dripping all over me. Your sweet little hole loves to be stretched on daddy’s big cock, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” you cried shamelessly, your nails digging into the back of Bucky’s neck and reveling in his sun-warmed skin. “Oh god, Bucky—daddy, you feel so good.” 

Your face tipped back, and you closed your eyes as you basked in the summer sunshine. Pleasure rolled through your body, and you realized the bobbing of the boat had you shifting slightly in Bucky’s lap, your hips rocking gently as you followed the motion of the ocean. It was too good, and he was too big, and it all had you babbling mindlessly. 

“You feel so big inside me, daddy. You’re splitting my little pussy open and making me leak all over your dick—oh god, Bucky, it’s so good, so good, s’good,” you sobbed, your words devolving as you grew too overwhelmed to speak. 

Bucky groaned like you were torturing him and he hiked you up his chest so he could bury his face in your tits. His stubbled jaw rasped over your sensitive skin, and you cried out, hugging his head to your chest while you trembled in his arms.

He tugged the neckline of your dress down, your tits popping out and giving him full access to lick and suck on your skin. His movements were hungry as he devoured your tits, sucking your soft flesh into his hot mouth and licking his flat, warm tongue over your nipples until they were puckered into tight, aching peaks. 

With one arm banded around your lower back, Bucky leaned forward, greedily sucking on your nipples while bending you back over his lap so he could feast on your tits. Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding on tight so you didn’t topple over.

Shameless moans spilled from your lips while you reveled in the feeling of being fully impaled on your best friend’s big, thick cock, his mouth hungrily sucking on your nipples. He filled you up so good, worshipped your tits so well, you almost regretted all the times you’d kissed him over the years and it had never gone any further.

But as soon as that thought popped into your mind, you pushed it aside. 

It was a beautiful, perfect summer day, and you were spending it with your best friend, Bucky Barnes. You decided right then that everything had happened just as it was meant to, that things had progressed between you and Bucky when you were both ready. 

And, in that moment, you were ready for even more. 

“Bucky,” you whined, rolling your hips and testing the feeling of his cock inside you. The stinging stretch of him first pushing all the way inside had waned, and your body was begging for friction—it was begging for completion. 

However, your best friend seemed perfectly content to ignore your pussy for the time being, and focus his entire attention on your tits. He made a muffled sound against your sternum, so you tugged on his hair until he lifted his head, resting his chin between your breasts while he looked up at you. 

“I wanna bounce on it,” you said, pouting down at him, your nails raking through his soft hair. 

A grin flickered at the edges of Bucky’s mouth before it stole across his handsome face. His blue eyes were bright and sparkling with affection and lust as he stared at you, almost like he was in awe of you. 

Suddenly, he surged up, capturing your lips in a fierce kiss that stole the breath from your lungs, licking into your mouth and laying claim to your body, mind and soul. 

“You worked so hard to take all of me inside you, baby, and now you just want to fuck and finish so soon?” he asked teasingly. 

His tone was bordering on patronizing in such a way that had your pussy pulsing around his cock. Your body’s reaction made him grin again, a soft chuckle ghosting over your lips and teasing you with the peachy taste of his breath.

“Why don’t you just sit pretty in my lap, sunshine. Let me worship your perfect tits while you keep my cock nice and warm,” he rumbled, his lips brushing against your cheek while he groped your breasts in his rough, calloused hand. “You wanna be a good cocksleeve for daddy, don’t you, baby?”

You didn’t. You wanted Bucky to fuck you. 

After all that time spent stretching your pussy open on his cock, you wanted Bucky to pound into you until you came on his hard length. You wanted your release so badly, your body yearned for it. 

But you supposed you could be good—for him. Still, you huffed a petulant sound, wanting to tell Bucky what you really wanted. Instead, you just pouted at your best friend and mumbled, “Yes, daddy.”

Bucky laughed like he could read your thoughts all over your face and knew exactly what you really wanted to say, but he didn’t call you out on it. He kissed you slowly, more decadently, rewarding you for your good behavior with the teasing slide of his tongue past your lips.

“That’s my girl,” he purred, brushing one last sweet kiss to your lips before leaning back. 

His sparkling blue eyes raked slowly down your body, and you could only imagine the disheveled and debauched image you presented. 

Your hair was undoubtedly mussed from the constant breeze on the water, your makeup a mess from the tears you’d shed and all the kisses you’d shared, and your dress was all askew. The hem was bunched up around your waist, and the neck pulled down until it pushed your tits up, as if in offering to your best friend.

You must’ve looked like a debased mess, but Bucky stared at you like you were the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen. He looked at you with so much naked devotion, you couldn’t help the warmth that filled your heart in the face of his hungry, affectionate gaze. 

A soft smile curved the edges of your lips, and Bucky ducked forward, as if he couldn’t stop himself from stealing one more kiss from your pretty mouth. 

“Sit back and enjoy the beautiful, perfect summer day, sunshine,” Bucky rumbled, echoing what he’d said to you when he’d helped you onto the sailboat earlier that afternoon and led you to the seating area. His eyes had sparkled just as much then, but they were filled with much more hunger now. “Let me take care of you.”

With those words, Bucky eased you back again, holding your body securely in his arms as his mouth dropped down to your chest. He pressed wet, suckling kisses into your soft flesh, his rough stubble dragging over your sensitive skin as he feasted on your tits. 

Your arms wrapped loosely around Bucky’s shoulders, sure that your best friend would never let you fall, and sank into the feeling of his mouth on your chest and his cock inside you. Tipping your face up toward the sky, you delighted in the warmth of the summer sunshine and let your mind go quiet as your body melted into the pleasure Bucky offered. 

Time seemed to slow and stretch like saltwater taffy, losing all meaning as you stayed present in the moment. All that mattered was Bucky’s cock filling you up so perfectly, and his mouth lazily suckling on one of your nipples before trailing kisses to the other and giving it the same treatment. 

It all felt so good, suffusing your body in a heat that had only a little to do with the sun shining down on Bucky’s sailboat. You let yourself get lost in warm pleasure, your body bound to Bucky’s where his cock was buried inside you, both of you rocking gently with the subtle waves of the water. 

Finally, after an indeterminable amount of time, Bucky sat back, pulling you with him until you lay sprawled and boneless against his chest. Your head rested on his shoulder, your face pressed into his warm neck, breathing in the salt and sunshine on his golden skin. 

“Feeling good, sunshine?” he asked softly, brushing a kiss to your forehead. You could feel the smile on his lips and it made your mouth curve as a happy contentment filled your heart.   

“Sooo good, Bucky,” you mumbled, squirming your hips to cuddle closer to him. The movement made his big cock shift inside you, and you let out a soft moan. “Can you fuck me now, daddy?” you asked in a sweet, almost sleepy, voice, even as your body was coming to life from the pleasure pulsing between your thighs.

“Of course, baby,” Bucky rumbled, his hands sliding down to your ass and scooping you up. He lifted your loose, pliant body enough that he could buck his hips and fuck up into you. 

The first, deep thrust had pleasure lighting up your entire body, every nerve ending sizzling to life, and an obscene moan spilled from your lips. After all that time sitting on his cock, you couldn’t believe how good it felt to move, but it was transcendent, tingles of pleasure racing through your body when he thrust up again.

Your muscles tensed, your pussy clenching down hard around Bucky’s cock when the tip brushed against a spot inside you that made you see stars. You got enough control of your body that were able to help him, lifting yourself up and dropping back down, impaling your pussy on his thick cock while he fucked you from below.

“You were such a good girl, sunshine, such a pretty little cocksleeve for daddy, keeping my cock so warm while I worshipped your tits,” Bucky huffed, his chest heaving as he helped you bounce on his cock. “Ya gonna let me cum inside that tight hole, baby—ya want daddy to fill you up and make you his pretty little cumdump?”

“Oh god, yes, please, daddy,” you begged, moaning and lifting your hips higher so you could drop down harder on Bucky’s cock. 

Your nails dug into Bucky’s shoulders and you tugged on his shirt until he got the hint and yanked it off over his head. You leaned in, pressing your bare tits against his warm, golden chest, giving him even more room to fuck into you, which he took advantage of. 

“Oh fuck, that feels so good, Bucky,” you cried, your face pressed against his cheek, panting into his stubbled jaw while he pounded into you. You were hurtling toward your release, and you knew it was going to be devastating. “It’s—oh god, it’s too much, daddy, I can’t!” 

“Shhh, you can take it, baby,” Bucky soothed, pressing kisses everywhere he could reach. “You’re such a good cocksleeve—taking daddy’s thick cock like such a good girl.” He huffed, his breath brushing your ear and making you shiver. “Rub that little clit, sunshine, wanna feel you cum on my dick before your tight hole makes me lose it.”

You could hardly think, but you managed to slip your hand down Bucky’s chest and between your thighs. You rubbed your clit, just like he told you, and your pussy clamped down hard on his cock, like you didn’t want him to leave. A whine slipped from your lips as your hips fell out of rhythm.

“Fuck, that’s it, sunshine, make yourself feel good while daddy fucks your tight hole,” Bucky rasped, the filthy words spilling from his mouth with no end in sight. “Make yourself cum, pretty girl, be a good cocksleeve and cum all over daddy’s big, fat dick. Gonna fill you up, make you my own personal cumdump, fill your belly with daddy’s cum.” 

Between Bucky’s dirty mouth, his thick cock ruthlessly fucking into you, and your slick fingers rubbing tight circles on your clit, it was all too much—the pleasure was too much. It sent you careening over the edge and you came with a sharp, piercing cry that echoed across the water. 

You shattered apart, barely aware of the obscene sounds you were making as your body shook with tremors under the onslaught of pleasure. Still, instinctively you clung on tight to your best friend, your free hand curling around the back of his neck. 

He held you just as tightly, his hands gripping your hips in an almost bruising grasp as he held you and chased his own release while you were still overcome with yours.

Bucky rutted up into you, shoving his cock into your clenching pussy and grunting his own pleasure. After a few more thrusts, he followed you over the edge. Burying his face in your chest, he groaned his release into your skin, and you felt the sound of his pleasure rattle through your lungs. 

Your best friend pulled you down hard onto his lap, so his cock was buried to the hilt in your pussy, his hard length throbbing in your tight heat while he came. He spilled rope after rope of warm cum deep in your cunt, both of you moaning as he filled you up just like he’d promised. 

His release set off another wave of pleasure in your body, and you shuddered. His arms tightened around you, holding you close while your bodies rocked together, fucking you through your release and his.

Once he’d recovered a little, Bucky searched blindly for your mouth and you came together for a messy kiss, your bodies writhing as you reveled in your pleasure together. 

The gentle rocking of the boat lulled you both as you came down from your peaks together, the sun warming your cooling bodies. When a breeze brushed teasingly against all your bare skin and you shivered, Bucky slowed the kiss. 

He pressed his forehead to yours, a grin hitched on his face as he watched your tits bounce lightly while you caught your breath. 

“Y’alright, sunshine?” he asked. His voice was a little ragged and you couldn’t help smirking at how undone your best friend looked and sounded. It made it all the easier to be honest with him.

“I’m ok,” you said. You had to bite back a giggle before you said your next words, though some of your laughter still seeped into your voice. “But I’m gonna be sore tomorrow.”

Huffing a soft laugh, Bucky kissed you, quick and hard. “But it was worth it, right?” he asked when he pulled back, his bright blue eyes searching your face, as if looking for any trace of regret in your expression.

His search was for naught though, because you only felt happy and content and satisfied with your decision to take your relationship with your best friend to a new level. 

It was on the tip of your tongue to be flippant, to make some teasing comment about how he should make you cum again before you gave him an answer. But you knew Bucky well enough that you could hear the thread of vulnerability in his tone. 

Your lips curved into a soft smile and you leaned forward, brushing your kiss-swollen lips against Bucky’s before you pulled back and looked him in the eye, letting him see the honesty in yours.

“It was worth it, Buck, I’m happy we did this—I’ve wanted you for a long time,” you admitted, voicing the words you’d been too scared to say out loud for so long.

Bucky grinned, his hand cupping the back of your neck and pulling your face close to his. “I’ve wanted you for so long, too, sunshine,” he murmured, teasing you with light kisses before continuing on. “But I’m glad it happened now, it felt like the perfect time.”

You didn’t bother to bite back your smile, and you opened your mouth, intent on telling Bucky you’d had a similar thought earlier, but his lips captured yours and you decided to deepen the kiss instead. 

You kissed your best friend slowly and sweetly, both of you pouring your hearts into the slide of your mouths. 

When the kiss ended, you sat back and smiled at your best friend. “Y’know, I’m really glad you invited me sailing,” you said, your smile widening into a grin when Bucky laughed.

“Me too, sunshine, me too.”

You stayed in Bucky’s lap, his half-hard cock buried inside your pussy, until you couldn’t ignore the twinge in your hips from sitting in the same position for so long. He helped ease you onto the bench seat, and fixed your dress before getting a towel to clean you up as much as possible. 

By the time the sun was dipping low in the sky, Bucky had begun steering the sailboat back toward the docks. 

You were curled up on the bench seat, nibbling on some remaining crackers and watching your best friend work the ropes, admiring the way the muscles in his arms and chest flexed deliciously and thinking about how perfect the day had been. 

Once the boat was docked, Bucky helped you back to shore, sliding his arm around your waist and keeping you steady when your legs wobbled beneath you. Laughing and burying your face in his chest, you stumbled alongside him back to the car. 

He drove you back to his place, where you had dinner before tumbling into bed together. Bucky showed you all over again how worth it it was to take him inside you, whispering words of filthy praise in your ear as he made you come undone all over again.

All in all, it was a beautiful, perfect summer day with your best friend, Bucky Barnes. 

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

Illegal

mob!bucky barnes x fbi!reader

summary: You’re an FBI agent sent undercover to get close to the most dangerous mob boss in the city. But the deeper you go, the harder it gets to remember which side you’re really on.

word count: 10k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! for all the tags/warnings, please check series masterlist since it may contain spoilers.

Chapter Ten (Final) — “Regret” | Previous

Everything was blurry.

He barely registered moving, barely felt his feet hitting the ground. One second he was screaming your name, the next he was in the car. Sam must’ve been driving, or maybe someone else, he didn’t know. He didn’t care.

All he knew was that you were in his arms. Limp. Bleeding. Your blood soaked into his shirt, hot and horrifying, and he was holding pressure on the wound with his metal hand, trying to stop it, trying to stop everything.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, over and over, voice cracking. “You’re okay. You’re okay, you’re fine—just stay with me, alright? Please.”

Your head lolled against his shoulder. Breathing, shallow but still there.

Still there.

He couldn’t look at your face for long. Couldn’t bear the way your skin had gone pale, how your lashes fluttered like you were trying to wake up from something.

He’d never felt so powerless. Never felt so small.

Because despite all his power, he couldn’t protect the woman he loved the most.

The car skidded into the hospital parking lot, tires screeching. Sam, yelled for help and James was already out of the car, cradling you against his chest like you might disappear if he let go.

“She’s been shot—midsection, low—she’s still breathing, but it’s bad—” His voice cracked on the last word, and it killed him.

He moved fast, meeting the medics halfway as the ER doors flew open. He barely registered the gurney before he was lowering you onto it, his hands trembling.

“I’ve got her, she’s losing a lot of blood, you have to—”

“We’ve got her,” one of them cut in, already working, already pressing gauze, already shouting vitals.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t waste a second. He stepped back, hands soaked in your blood, heart pounding so loud it drowned everything else out.

But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t take his eyes off you as they wheeled you away.

You looked so small.

So fucking still.

“Sir—sir, we need you to wait here.”

A nurse was speaking, trying to guide him to the chairs, but James didn’t budge. Not at first. His body wouldn’t let him.

Only when the doors slammed shut behind you did he finally exhale—shaky, fractured, like his lungs didn’t know how to breathe without you.

And then he looked down. His hands. Shaking. Sticky. Crimson.

Your blood smeared across his palms, under his nails, splattered over the silver of his metal fingers.

God.

He blinked, but it didn’t go away. It wouldn’t go away.

What have I done…?

The thought hit like a punch to the chest.

You were bleeding because of him.

Because you’d come back into his life. Because you’d stood beside him. Because he hadn’t seen it coming. Because he let his guard down.

You should’ve stayed away.

You should’ve never had to come tonight.

You should’ve been safe—God, you should’ve been safe.

He swallowed hard, but it didn’t stop the rising tide.

All those years he spent keeping his distance, convincing himself it was for your protection—and now look at you. Shot. Pale. Unconscious.

You’d nearly died in his arms.

You could still die.

The ache in his chest twisted, sharp and consuming. You trusted him. You came back. And this is what he gave you.

His breath hitched. He couldn’t stop staring at his hands.

Becca.

God—what would he even say to her?

How was he supposed to look his daughter in the eye and explain this?

Explain that her mother…

No.

No, no, no.

He couldn’t think like that. He wouldn’t.

But the thought pushed through anyway—sharp and sickening.

What if you don’t make it?

What if this was the last time he’d ever hear your voice?

What if the last words he ever said to you weren’t enough? Weren’t soft or kind or anything close to what you deserved?

What if Becca wakes up tomorrow and you’re just… gone?

He shook his head violently, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

You were her world. Her anchor. Her lullabies and lunchbox notes. The voice she trusted when she was scared, the arms she ran to when she needed comfort.

And he—he was supposed to protect you both. That’s all he ever wanted.

And now…

Now he might be the one who takes you from her.

The guilt burned through him like wildfire, devouring every thought, every shred of sense.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help. All he could see was Becca’s face when she realized you weren’t coming home.

All he could hear was her voice asking where’s Mama?

And what the hell was he supposed to say?

He’d carried you in, but what if he walked out alone?

He was still staring at his hands. It didn’t even look real. It looked like someone else’s hands. Someone else’s mess.

But it wasn’t.

It was his.

It was you.

“Sir?”

The voice barely registered. Distant, muffled like it came through a wall of water.

“Sir, are you hurt too?”

His head jerked up, unfocused. A nurse stood in front of him—mid-thirties, maybe, in scrubs with soft eyes and a voice full of concern.

He blinked at her, confused.

What was she asking? Was he—?

“No,” he rasped. His voice sounded wrong, like gravel. “No. Not me.”

She took a step closer, glancing down at his soaked shirt, his stained fingers.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said gently. “I’ll give you something to help with the nerves, okay?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t trust himself to speak. His throat was tight and dry, his chest still hollow. Everything around him felt far away, unreal—voices blurred together, movement out of sync.

He just nodded. Not because he understood. Not because he even heard her, not really.

But because it was easier than saying please, just fix her. Just let her live.

So he let her lead him down the hallway, away from the blood, away from the doors that had closed behind the gurney.

———

"I've got you. I've got you."

———

The waiting room was too bright. Too quiet.

James sat in the corner, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might offer some kind of answer. Like if he just looked hard enough, long enough, something would start to make sense.

But nothing did.

They’d taken you back almost an hour ago. Maybe more. He wasn’t sure. Time felt like a rubber band—snapping, stretching, folding in on itself.

No one had come out to speak to him. Not a nurse. Not a doctor. Not anyone.

He didn’t know if that was good or bad. Did they only come out when it was too late? When there was a decision to be made? When there were… news?

He clenched his jaw, metal hand flexing uselessly on his thigh. The blood was mostly gone now—scrubbed off in a sink—but his skin still felt stained. Like he could feel it soaked into the bones.

He leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands. His mind wouldn’t stop.

She was right there. In front of you. And you still couldn’t protect her.

You’d looked at him today. Smiled at him like maybe you could see the life he’d once promised you.

And now you were somewhere behind those sterile double doors, fighting for your life because someone pulled a trigger and he didn’t see it coming.

Because he let it happen.

James squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to breathe.

He felt like he was drowning.

Someone passed by. Another nurse maybe. A pair of shoes squeaked on the floor, and James’s head snapped up—hope flaring in his chest, then immediately flickering out again when the man didn’t even glance his way.

Not about you. Not yet.

He sank back into the hard plastic chair. Let his hands fall between his knees, empty and still.

He’d been through so much. He’d seen death. He was death, for a long time.

But nothing—nothing—had ever felt like this.

He sat there motionless, eyes unfocused, the buzzing in his head louder than the low murmur of nurses and overhead announcements.

Until a voice cut through it. “Well… we finally meet.”

James blinked. Looked up.

A man stood across the room, shoulders stiff, anger written all over his face. His clothes were half-wrinkled, like he’d thrown them on in a rush. But it was his eyes—cold, furious, burning—that made James sit up straighter.

He didn’t recognize him. Not really. He’d never seen him in person. But then the pieces clicked.

Mike.

That must be him.

James stood up, his hand twitching instinctively toward his side before remembering he wasn’t armed. Not here. Not in a hospital.

Mike took a few steps forward, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking.

“Barnes,” he said flatly.

James didn’t move. His heart pounded, a sick, hollow sound.

“There was a shooting, I—”

“You what?!” Mike snapped, voice sharp but not loud enough to draw attention. “You gonna say it wasn’t your fault? That she just—what? Got caught in the crossfire?”

James opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Because what could he say?

Mike scoffed at his silence. “She trusted you. I don’t know why. God knows I tried to tell her, again and again—but she trusted you.”

James swallowed hard, his hands curling into fists. He didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

„And now? She nearly died because of you,” he continued, voice low and seething. “Your daughter nearly lost her mother because of you.”

That landed like a punch to the gut.

Mike took one more step closer, right in front of him now.

James didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But the air between them was stretched razor-thin.

And then—

Mike grabbed him. Fist clenched in the collar of his shirt, yanking him forward with a sudden, furious jolt.

James’ jaw locked. His strength surged to the surface, instincts screaming—fight, defend, react. But he didn’t hit him. He pushed him back. Hard.

Mike stumbled a step, caught himself, his face red and shaking with rage.

“Haven’t you done enough?!” Mike yelled, voice echoing through the sterile waiting room. A nurse peeked in from down the hall but didn’t intervene—at least not yet.

His voice cracked now, loud and raw. “Don’t you see what you did? Are you seriously this fucking blind?! You’re the reason she’s here! You’re the one who got her into this!”

James’ chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths.

“She wouldn’t be here bleeding on some operating table if you hadn’t dragged her into your mess, your goddamn life!”

“I know,” James bit out. His voice was low but steady, trembling with restraint. “You think I don’t know?”

Mike stared at him, wild-eyed, like he couldn’t believe he was still standing there.

“I never wanted this,” James continued, his voice breaking slightly. “I never wanted her to get hurt. I didn’t ask her to do this. But she did. Because she’s stubborn. Because she’s brave. Because she—”

He had to stop. His throat closed up.

Mike shook his head. “Because she loves you.” The words hit like a blade. “That’s the worst part.”

His voice dropped, rough with disbelief, pain, and something far more ancient than sorrow.

“Because after all these fucking years… she still loves you.”

He paused.

“More than ever. She believed you’d love her back.”

James’ chest caved with the force of it. He blinked, jaw trembling, and a single tear escaped down his cheek.

“I do,” he whispered, his voice cracking like old stone. „I love her.”

Mike just stared at him. Then scoffed, shaking his head, backing away with a bitter, broken laugh.

“Oh, a little too fucking late now!” The yell was sharp. Harsh enough that one of the nurses finally stood up from her desk.

“Sir, I will have to ask you to leave if you continue being so loud.”

Mike didn’t even look at her. “Was about to leave anyways.”

But before he could turn, James spoke—quietly, like something heavy cracked behind his ribs.

“How did you know she’s here…?”

Mike slowly turned back toward him, fury still simmering in his jaw. “Do you really think I’d let her back here—near you—without putting a tracker in her phone?”

James blinked.

“I saw the hospital address and fucking stormed in here with my goddamn badge,” Mike snapped, voice low now, restrained. “Shoved it in the nurse’s face and asked what the hell happened, asking about everyone brought here in the last hour. And tell me—why was I not even surprised by the news?

James ran a hand down his face, dragging it over his mouth like he could scrape the guilt away.

Mike stood still, arms crossed, his expression already a warning. “They’ll know soon,” he said flatly. “The cops. About the shooting. And when they do—”

“Can you hold them off?” James interrupted, voice low, frayed. He didn’t look at Mike, just kept staring at the wall like it might collapse in on him. “Just for a little while. Buy me some time.”

Mike blinked, incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

James finally looked at him. And his eyes—god, his eyes—weren’t cold or stubborn or proud. They were begging.

“For her,” he said. “Please, If they connect it to her—God, Please—if you care about her then let me keep her safe.”

Mike stared at him for a long moment. Then he sighed, sharp and bitter, like he was choking on it. “You better have your people clean it up fast. Before they start connecting dots.”

“They’re working on it,” James said quietly. His throat was raw.

Mike stepped closer, his jaw tight. “I’m doing this for her. Not you.”

And then he turned and walked off—leaving James standing there alone in the silence.

The echo of his words still lingered in the hallway. James didn’t move. Not right away. He just stood there, jaw clenched, staring at the floor like maybe the earth would swallow him whole and do him a favor.

But it didn’t.

So he walked back to the chair—the same one he’d been sitting in for what felt like an eternity—and collapsed into it. His hands were shaking again. He wiped at his face.

Becca.

He needed to know If Becca’s safe.

He pulled out his phone. It slipped a little in his hand. The screen lit up. His fingers hovered, then found the number.

Steve answered on the second ring.

“Bucky?”

He exhaled. “Is Becca okay?” his voice broke.

A pause, just long enough to twist his stomach again.

“Yeah,” Steve said gently. “Yeah, she’s safe. We took her and your sister with her kid to a safehouse. No one followed. They’re fine.”

James closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell, but it didn’t feel like breathing.

“You’re sure?”

“I swear. I’ve got eyes on them right now. She’s sleeping. Your sister been trying to keep her distracted with puzzles and TV. She doesn’t really understand what happened. I messaged Sharon to come here too.“

“Good,” he whispered. “That’s good.”

Silence settled between them for a second. There was a pause on the line. Just the faint sound of Steve breathing on the other end.

Then, gently—carefully—he asked,

“Is she… going to make it?”

James shut his eyes. His jaw tensed so hard it hurt. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, phone pressed to his ear with fingers that wouldn’t stop trembling.

“I don’t fucking know,” he said, voice barely holding together. “They haven’t told me anything. She’s still in surgery.”

More silence. Steve didn’t try to fill it.

James sat there, staring at the white tiles of the waiting room floor like they might crack open and give him some kind of answer. His knee bounced. His other hand gripped his thigh so tight it went numb.

“I should’ve protected her,” he added, quieter now. “I should’ve kept her safe.”

Steve didn’t say anything. He didn’t say you did your best. He didn’t lie.

James ran a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots like the pain might ground him. His voice was hoarse when he asked,

“Is Sam working on everything?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “He’s on it.”

James nodded to himself, though it didn’t help. His mind was already racing ahead. “Was it the Rumlow family? Do we know anything? How the fuck did they get that close—how did they get in?”

“Yeah. It’s them.”

James let out a breath like a curse, chest rising with the weight of it. His teeth clenched. “Fucking knew it,” he muttered. “I thought they’re gone, I—I should’ve seen it coming.”

“They were smart about it,” Steve said, calm but not unfeeling. “This wasn’t random. It was planned. We’re working on tracking where they came from, who helped them. But you need to stay where you are right now.”

James didn’t answer for a long moment. He just stared at the bits of unwashed blood under his fingernails, dried and cracking, and swallowed hard.

Then, quietly, “She was just standing there. Shielding me.” His voice broke. “She—she shielded me.”

There was silence on the line for a moment, just the static hum and James’ uneven breathing.

Then Steve’s voice softened. “Buck…”

James squeezed his eyes shut. His throat was burning. “She fucking shielded me, Steve.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t see him—I didn’t see the guy. She did. And she ran.” His voice cracked. “She ran to me. I was just standing there like a goddamn idiot and she—she took the bullet.”

“James,” Steve said gently. “You need to breathe, okay? Just—just breathe.”

But James couldn’t. He couldn’t even feel his lungs. His chest was tight, his heart pounding so violently it hurt. “It should’ve been me,” he whispered. “She’s the mother of my child and I—I let her bleed out in my fucking arms, Steve.”

Steve was quiet again, but only for a second. “Listen to me,” he said, firm this time. “She’s alive right now. She’s still fighting. You did everything you could. You got her there. You held her together.”

James let out a bitter, shaky laugh. “She was holding me together.”

Then it hit him all over again. His breath caught, and suddenly it was like something inside him snapped. A low, broken sound escaped his throat before he could stop it. He bent forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, hands pressed hard to his face as if he could somehow block out the weight of it all.

“I can’t do this without her, Steve,” he said, barely audible. “I can’t—if she dies I don’t—fuck, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“You’re not going to lose her,” Steve said, but his voice was strained too. “You hear me? You’re not.”

James didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The pain clawing up his spine, the grief curling tight in his chest—it was too much. All he could do was sit there, trembling, shoulders shaking as the tears fell hot and fast behind his hands. Everything was blurry again. Except this time it wasn’t from shock—it was from the sheer, unbearable thought that she might not come back. That the love of his life might die because of him.

And all he could do was wait.

———

“Stay with me, please”

———

The minutes blurred. The sterile light above him buzzed faintly, the air stale with the smell of antiseptic and worry.

Still waiting.

His phone was silent. Steve hadn’t called back. No one had.

Until finally—

“Mr. Barnes?”

The voice jolted him. He looked up fast, heart slamming into his ribs.

A man in surgical scrubs stood in front of him. Middle-aged, calm face, though the lines around his mouth suggested hours of tension. James shot to his feet so fast the chair screeched behind him.

“How is she?” His voice cracked. “Is she—?”

“The surgery went well,” the doctor said gently. “We managed to remove the bullet, and stop the internal bleeding. She lost a lot of blood. A lot. But we were able to stabilize her.”

James swayed slightly, breath caught halfway in his chest.

“She’s unconscious,” the doctor added. “Still in critical condition. The next hours—maybe days—will determine how her body recovers.”

“But she’s alive?” James asked hoarsely.

“She’s alive.”

He felt his knees nearly give out. He gripped the back of the chair just to stay upright. Alive. You were alive. Barely—but the word echoed through him like oxygen. Like something holy.

“Can I see her?” he asked, not caring how desperate he sounded.

The doctor hesitated. “She’s still being monitored. But soon. I’ll let the nurses know to update you the moment she’s moved.”

James nodded, swallowing thickly. “Thank you,” he managed.

The doctor gave him a faint, tired smile, then stepped away.

And James just stood there, still frozen, trying to process what it meant to breathe again. You’d made it through the surgery. You were still here.

Still here.

———

“We need to get you help. Now. Please, stay with me."

———

The minutes dragged. The fluorescent lights in the waiting room buzzed above James’ head while somewhere down a hallway, you were barely holding on.

He couldn’t sit anymore. Couldn’t stand either. He paced, hands still faintly stained with your blood despite the nurse’s earlier efforts.

“Mr. Barnes?”

He turned so fast it made him dizzy.

A nurse stood in the doorway now, clipboard against her chest, voice gentle but tired.

“We’ve moved her to recovery. You can see her now.”

James didn’t speak. His breath hitched, and he could only nod as he followed her down the corridor.

The walk was slow. Each step heavier than the last, like his body was trying to prepare him for something he could never be ready for.

The door opened and he saw you.

His knees almost buckled.

You were lying still, pale against the white hospital sheets. A monitor beeped steadily beside you, IV lines in both arms, oxygen tubing by your nose, a heart monitor clipped to your finger.

James stepped in slowly, as if afraid that even the sound of his boots on the floor might somehow hurt you. His eyes welled instantly, tears clinging to his lashes before he could blink them back.

He reached the edge of the bed and sank into the chair beside you.

His voice cracked, raw. “I’m so sorry…”

He covered his mouth with one hand, the other gripping the blanket that covered you.

“I’m so—” he broke off, shoulders shaking. “God, I should’ve never asked you to come back. I should’ve protected you. You didn’t deserve this…”

The machines kept beeping quietly. The only reply.

James reached for your hand—slow, trembling fingers brushing against yours before he gently wrapped them around your smaller, colder ones.

It was like holding something fragile and broken. Something that could still slip away.

He let out a breath that shook all the way through him, as if something inside was breaking open piece by piece.

“I’m so sorry…” His voice cracked again, and this time the sob broke through.

“I’m so fucking sorry I let you down,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to the back of your hand. “I’m sorry I pushed you away. I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. I’m so—god—I’m so fucking sorry.”

His shoulders heaved. Tears hit the white sheets like they burned.

“I love you,” he choked. “I love you so much. I never stopped. I never will. And I—I don’t know how to do this without you. I don’t want to.”

The monitors beeped steadily. Your hand didn’t move.

But James stayed there, holding on to it like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world. Like if he just stayed there long enough, maybe you’d come back to him. Maybe you’d squeeze his hand. Maybe you’d whisper I love you back.

———

“You're okay, you're fine-just stay with me, alright?”

———

The room was annoyingly quiet. Only the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the soft hiss of oxygen filled the dark. Moonlight spilled in through the window, casting everything in silver—your still face, the tangle of wires and tubes, the chair James hadn’t moved from in hours.

He hadn’t let go of your hand once.

His thumb kept brushing gently across your knuckles. Absent, instinctive like his body was trying to keep you tethered when words and strength had long since failed him.

His eyes were heavy, bloodshot, rimmed with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t even come from lack of sleep—but from fear.

Fear that still hadn’t left his chest. Not even now.

He hadn’t spoken in a while. Not since the last whisper of I love you that broke in his throat sometime after midnight.

Now, he just sat. Breathing slow. Watching you breathe too. Shallow, measured. Mechanical.

He shifted slightly in the chair, brushing his free hand down his face. Stubble rough beneath his fingers. He was still in the clothes from earlier. Still had a spot of dried blood on his sleeve. He hadn’t even noticed. And he wasn’t sure he cared.

“I should’ve kept you out of this,” he murmured finally, his voice hoarse from crying, from silence. “I should’ve protected you.”

A sniff. He didn’t bother hiding it.

“I’m gonna make it right. I swear to God, I’ll make it right. Just… just don’t leave me. Not like this.”

His fingers tightened around yours again.

———

"Please, my love..."

———

The world came back in pieces.

Sound first—the slow, steady beep of a machine somewhere near your head. The soft hiss of air. Muffled footsteps in the hall. Then the pressure. A dull ache blooming beneath your ribs, like someone had pressed something heavy into your chest and left it there.

You tried to breathe.

It hurt.

Your lashes fluttered, the light overhead too harsh, too white. You winced and blinked, blinking again and again until the blur shaped itself into something solid.

A ceiling. A sterile one.

A hospital?

Your heart jumped—then ached. Your body felt foreign. Every limb heavy. Slow.

And then there was movement. A blur beside you. A figure. Leaning in fast. Voice shaking. Familiar.

James. He was there. Right there.

His face was blotched with dried tears and worry, eyes rimmed red and wide with relief. He was holding your hand. His voice a hush.

“Hey. Hey, baby—it’s okay. You’re okay, you’re safe.”

But your mind didn’t catch up.

You didn’t feel safe. You didn’t even know where you were or why you were here.

Your eyes filled before you could stop them. Tears slid down your cheeks fast and hot, confusion turning to panic in your throat. You stared at him. Terrified and shaking. Every part of you trembled.

“Becca…” you croaked, voice barely there. “Where’s Becca—?”

The words broke like glass in your throat.

James cupped your face in his hands instantly, leaning in so you could see him, hear him through the fear.

“She’s safe. She’s okay,” he whispered, nodding quickly, voice thick with emotion. “I promise. She’s with my sister. She’s completely safe. You don’t have to worry about her, alright?”

You stared at him. More tears fell. You couldn’t stop them. Even though every breath burned, even though your ribs screamed and your body ached in ways you couldn’t name—you cried. Silent, helpless tears.

You didn’t know why, not fully. Maybe it was the fear. Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was the way James looked at you like he was watching the world fall apart. Like you were the only thing holding him to this earth.

Maybe it was all of it.

James leaned closer, his hands trembling as they moved from your cheeks to your hair, brushing it gently back from your face. His fingers were careful, reverent. His forehead nearly touched yours.

“I’m here,” he breathed. “I’m here, baby. You’re safe with me now.”

Your chest hitched again. A sob, quiet and cracked, crawled out from your throat.

He kissed your knuckles.

“I—I’m so sorry. God—” His voice broke and he pressed your hand against his lips, holding it like a lifeline. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I let you down. I should’ve kept you safe. I should’ve never—”

He didn’t finish. Couldn’t.

Your hand twitched in his, the smallest movement, like maybe you were trying to hold him back from saying the rest.

“I thought I was—” Your voice cracked so quietly it barely left your throat. “I thought I was dying, James…”

Tears rolled freely now, shaking your chest as your fingers clutched weakly at his. “But I felt so safe in your arms…”

James choked on a breath. His eyes clenched shut, jaw tightening as more tears slipped down his face. He leaned in closer, his forehead pressing softly to yours, his hands cradling you like you were made of glass.

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you now and I’m not letting go again. Never. Never again.”

He kissed your temple, your knuckles, your cheek—anywhere he could reach without hurting you.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispered over and over, like a prayer or rather like a punishment.

“I’ll make it right,” James whispered, his voice raw, trembling against the silence of the hospital room. “I swear to God, I’ll make it right this time.”

His thumb stroked the back of your hand, eyes drinking you in like he still didn’t quite believe you were here—alive.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you away,” he murmured. “I thought I was protecting you—myself, but all I did was hurt you.”

His voice cracked again as he leaned closer, forehead brushing against your temple.

“I should’ve forgiven you. I should’ve let myself forgive you… I was just so angry and scared and—” He stopped himself, breathing hard through the ache. “None of that matters now. None of it.”

“You shouldn’t have taken a bullet for me.” His hand squeezed yours, tears gathering in his lashes again. “That was supposed to be me.”

His jaw clenched, breaking on a whisper. “It should’ve been me.”

And he kissed your hand again, like it might bring you peace. Like it might heal the part of you he couldn’t reach.

Your body ached with every breath, but the pain was nothing compared to the weight in your chest. Your voice was barely audible—cracked and raw as tears slipped down your cheeks.

“I just wanted to keep you safe…” you sobbed, your fingers twitching weakly in his. “I—I didn’t think. I just… I saw the gun and I thought—”

Your words broke into shallow gasps, and James was there instantly, brushing the tears from your cheeks with trembling hands, trying so hard to hold himself together for you.

“Shh… hey, no, don’t do that,” he whispered, his voice thick. “Don’t talk like that. You hear me?” He kissed your knuckles gently. “You didn’t have to protect me. That’s supposed to be my job. Mine.”

You whimpered, and he leaned closer, one hand gently cupping your cheek.

“But you did it anyway,” he breathed. “You still did. And—“ he stuttered. “And I’m so fucking sorry it took nearly losing you for me to understand how much you love me. How much I love you.”

His voice broke again. “But I’m here now. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. I promise you that.”

Your body shook with another sob as your hand clutched weakly at his. Your voice came out broken, barely more than a whisper.

“I love you…”

James’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he looked at you like your words had shattered him all over again. Like he didn’t deserve them.

Then, slowly, a trembling, tearful smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He leaned in, pressing another kiss to your hand.

“I love you too,” he whispered. “More than anything. More than I ever let myself admit.” He swallowed hard. “You and Becca… you’re everything. My whole world.”

His voice cracked, but he kept going.

“If you let me—if you give me the chance—I swear to you, I’ll fix this. I’ll fix every fucking mess I made. I’ll put it all right. I’ll earn back every piece of you I broke.”

His thumb brushed gently over your wrist, grounding you, anchoring you in that moment.

“I’m yours. If you’ll still have me.”

You nodded. Slow, weak, but certain.

And the moment you did, the tears came harder—yours and his. You broke into another sob, chest aching from the pain but not able to stop, because this—this was all you ever wanted.

Him. Here. Saying the words you spent so long wishing for.

“I just wanted you to love me,” you whispered through the tears, voice cracking.

“I always did,” James said, his hand moving gently to cradle your cheek. “I was just too fucking scared to hold onto something real… too angry, too hurt to see what was right in front of me.”

You leaned into his touch even though everything hurt. Every breath, every heartbeat. But this—him—was worth the pain.

He squeezed your hand gently. His thumb brushed over your skin as he gave you that broken, tired smile—the one you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

“I’ll do everything for you,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “I promise. I’ll leave all of this behind, somehow. Hell, we can even go live on a farm like you always wanted. Just the three of us.”

A tear slipped down your cheek as your lips curved into a trembling smile.

“You remembered?” you whispered, disbelief and love woven into the words.

James nodded, eyes locked to yours. “Of course I remembered.” His voice cracked. “You talked about it like it was heaven. A garden. Chickens. Even a goat.”

Your bottom lip trembled as you whispered, “And a cat…”

He blinked, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “A cat?” He chuckled softly.

“For Beccy…” you murmured, voice breaking just a little. „She loves cats.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, James let out a real laugh—weak, worn, but warm. “Of course…”

Your eyes glistened with tears, lashes damp, and you looked at him like he was your entire world. Maybe because he was.

“I missed you…” you whispered.

James inhaled sharply, as if those three words cracked something open in him again. His thumb gently swept over the back of your hand.

“I missed you too…” he whispered, voice low and thick. “So fucking much.”

You wanted to stay in that moment forever. Just you and James and the goddamn pain in your chest.

But you remembered what happened. Who inflicted the pain. Who put James and your daughter in danger.

Your breath hitched, throat still raw, but the urgency pushed through your pain. “Sharon—”

James shook his head gently, his grip on your hand tightening just a bit. “You don’t have to worry about her. You were right, I—”

“No.” Your voice cracked, eyes wide, suddenly frantic. “No, James. It was her. She planned this. Please—you gotta believe me.”

His whole body went still. His brows furrowed, eyes searching yours. “What?” he asked.

“She—she planned it. I saw her, James it must be her, please—” you whispered, trying to sit up before a bolt of pain made you wince.

James was instantly there, hand to your back, keeping you still. “Hey—don’t move, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

You shook your head again, weak but desperate. “She was acting weird at the party. I was watching her—I know I shouldn’t but I did—she must have let them in, please—”

Your voice cracked and trembled, but your eyes were clear. Fierce in a way he’d seen only when it came to Becca. Or him.

And James just stared at you for a second. Silent and still.

“Sharon…?” he breathed. And something changed behind his eyes.

He sat back, blinking like he was seeing something in his head. “She… was off all day.” His voice was low, almost to himself. “Kept asking questions. Kept disappearing. But I—I didn’t think anything of it, I just—”

He exhaled sharply. Rubbed his hands over his face.

“Please, James…” you sobbed. “You gotta believe me. I’m sure it was her—“

“I am so fucking stupid.”

You saw the moment it hit him. The shift. Like every strange little detail he’d ignored came crashing back, sharper than before—the way she was distant, focused on something else. How she was gone just before the entire thing happened.

James let out a breath that sounded more like a gasp. “God. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve seen it.”

He looked at you again, and the guilt there nearly knocked the air out of him.

“She was at my side for so long. I thought she can be trusted, I—” His throat closed and he shook his head.

James suddenly stood up, fast, too fast—his hand flying through his hair, dragging at the roots like he needed to feel something real, something grounding. Anger flared across his features, sharp and burning and cold all at once.

You felt the heat of it before he even turned. He tensed. Something in his shoulders braced like a man preparing for war. He was moving before he said a word. Turning toward the door.

“James—”

He stopped. Mid-step. Didn’t turn.

But you saw the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. The rage he wore like armor now—rage and guilt and something feral.

“Please,” your voice broke, soft and raw. “Don’t leave me—”

He turned slowly.

And when his eyes met yours, the fury hadn’t left—but beneath it, there was something deeper. Something resolved.

“I gotta make this right,” he said, voice low and rough. “This one last time…”

You didn’t want to let him go. God, every cell in your body was screaming to hold on, to beg him to stay right there beside you where it was safe—where you felt safe.

But you saw it in his face. You knew him.

He needed to do this.

So you nodded through the ache in your chest. “Come back to me.”

His eyes glassed over again. He crossed the room in two strides, leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead—gentle, lingering.

“I will,” he whispered. “No matter what, I will.”

———

The car was dead silent. Engine off. Just the steady tick of the hazard lights blinking red on the dash.

James sat there, still in his blood-streaked shirt at the sleeves, hands trembling slightly as he loaded the gun. Clip in. Chamber clicked. Safety off.

It should’ve been obvious.

God, how could he not see that? How did he fall for it? Why did he let his guard down?

Why did he ever trust her?

Sharon had texted him half a dozen times since he’d gotten to the hospital.

Sharon | 9:28PM

You okay? Please, I’m worried. I’m here if you need anything.

Fake concern. All of it. And he’d been too fucking blind to see it until you had.

Sharon | 11:04AM

I got to the safehouse. Steve sent me the address. Said it’s the safest here.

Stupid cunt.

He reached for his phone with a hard breath and tapped the screen. Dialed one of the numbers from his contacts.

“Bucky?” Sam picked up almost instantly. “Your place’s secured. Everything’s clean and the police—”

“There’s gonna be more mess to clean up,” James cut in. “At the safehouse.”

“What are you talking about…?” Sam asked, voice filled with concern.

James didn’t waste a second. “It was her.”

“…What?”

“Sharon. She set it up.”

“Are you saying she’s working with Rumlow?”

James blinked down at the gun in his lap. Thought about you, still weak in that hospital bed. Thought about Becca and how she almost lost her mother.

“I’m about to find out.”

And just like that he hang up. He set the phone down on the passenger seat and exhaled.

The metal of the gun was warm in his palm as he stepped out of the car, shutting the door with a quiet finality. The porch lights were turned off. Curtains closed.

His boots hit the steps one by one, each heavier than the last.

The door opened before he could knock. Steve, was smiling faintly—until he saw his face and the fury written all over it.

James didn’t say a word. Just brushed past him.

Inside, the living room was full. Becca sat cross-legged on the rug beside his sister’s daughter, both of them drawing sleepily something on paper. Rebecca stood nearby, arms crossed but relaxed. And on the couch—Sharon.

She stood when she saw him, smile tight. “James. Thank god—”

“Daddy!” Becca’s face lit up, already halfway to him.

James didn’t move. Didn’t look at his daughter. His eyes were locked on Sharon.

Becca slowed with her steps, confused. Then stopped in place just a few feet away. “Daddy…?”

Still nothing.

His voice came low. Controlled and with coldness that made the room drop ten degrees.

“Take the girls away.”

Steve blinked, looking between him and Sharon. “What—James—”

“Take them away, Steve.”

His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might snap. Hands at his sides, trembling with restraint.

Sharon shifted on her feet. “James, what’s going on?” Her voice teetered at the edge of something she couldn’t control.

He didn’t answer her.

Steve moved then, understanding something unspoken in James’ eyes. “Come on, girls,” he said gently, reaching for Becca’s hand even as she looked up, confused and wide-eyed.

“Daddy?”

Still nothing.

He didn’t look away from Sharon—not for a second—as the girls were ushered outside, his sister’s soft reassurances barely audible over the silence.

When the front door clicked shut, James finally took a step forward.

Sharon stood frozen, her gaze darting between his face and the pistol in his hand.

He lifted the gun. The barrel aimed straight at her chest.

His voice, when it came, was deadly calm. “Wanna tell me something?”

Sharon’s breath hitched. Her hands shot up, palms out. “It’s not like you think, James. I can expl—”

Crack.

The shot rang through the room. Sharon’s body jerked. She staggered back, crashing into the coffee table before hitting the ground hard.

Smoke aired from the muzzle of the gun. James didn’t lower it. Didn’t look away for a long moment. His chest heaved once. Then again.

His rage wasn’t gone. Not yet.

But she was.

———

It’s been days. Monitor still beeped beside your bed. You were stronger now—awake more than asleep, breathing easier, but still sore everywhere. Every inch of you still felt bruised, inside and out.

The door creaked and you turned your head as it opened. James stepped in, holding Becca in his arms.

She spotted you instantly, smiling widely. “Mommy!”

Your throat closed up. You tried to sit up but winced, and James was there in a heartbeat.

“Hey, hey—don’t move too fast, sweetheart,” he murmured, lowering Becca gently onto the bed beside you.

Becca scrambled over carefully, small hands touching your arm like she was scared you might break. “I missed you…” she whispered, her lip wobbling.

You cupped her cheek with a shaky hand, brushing her curls back. “Hi, baby… I missed you too.”

She crawled right into your side and hugged your stomach, gently enough not to hurt you. “But I missed you so, so much more,” she whispered.

You nodded, eyes glassy. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

James sat at the edge of the bed, silent at first. He didn’t say anything, just looked at you.

His gaze said out loud what his feelings were.

Regret. Guilt.

Love.

His fingers gently found your hand and wrapped around it. His thumb ran across your knuckles slowly. Reverently.

“I took care of everything,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Well… mostly. Left the rest to Sam,” he smiled. “We can leave as soon as you’re out of hospital.”

He hesitated then, eyes dropping to your hand in his. “Mike… helped too. Pulled some strings he didn’t owe me. You don’t have to run away again.” James rolled his eyes. „Said you owe him bottle of whiskey, though. A big one.”

You looked at him, heart twisting at how worn he looked even in this small moment of calm. There was so much behind those few words—the guilt, the weight of what he’d done, what others had done for you.

“We can leave as soon as you’re out of the hospital,” he added, gently. “It’s all ready.”

You stared at him for a long second, your mouth trembling—overwhelmed by how much had changed, how much he’d done. And then you gave a small nod.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He shook his head. “No. Don’t thank me for doing what I should’ve done from the start.”

Becca looked between the two of you, resting her chin on your arm, eyes wide and curious. “Can we go home soon?”

You smiled through tears, brushing your thumb over her forehead. “Soon, baby. I promise.”

James looked down at her and then back at you. “We’ll go home,” he said. “All of us.”

———

The car ride was mostly quiet. You watched the trees blur by. The air was warm, sweet with late summer.

James had one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. He kept glancing at you like he wanted to say something, but every time, he just smiled instead.

You leaned back against the seat, relaxed but curious. “You’re not gonna tell me?”

His smile deepened. “Nope.”

You groaned, dramatic. “I don’t like surprises.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

He glanced over at you again, smirking. “You will.”

You rolled your eyes but the warmth in your chest gave you away. He was so calm lately. Quieter in a peaceful way, not a haunted one. There were still shadows behind his eyes sometimes, but he let you in now. And you—well. You were starting to feel like a person again. Like yourself. Or something close to it.

The car slowed as the road narrowed, turning into gravel under the tires. You sat up straighter, looking around.

And then you saw it.

A wide, open clearing. A house perched at the end of the drive—big and old, painted soft blue. The roof was white, the porch wide with little lamps hanging over. The garden behind the fence was full of tall sunflowers and wildflowers.

James parked the car and turned the engine off.

You turned slowly to look at him, blinking. “What is this?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just got out, rounded the car, and opened your door with a smirk.

You stepped out slowly and James took your hand.

“This…” he said quietly, “is ours.”

Your heart paused. “What?”

“I bought it.” He nodded toward the house. “Well. Almost. Still got some papers to sign. But it’s ours.”

You blinked, lips parted. “James…”

“There’s land for Becca to run around,” he said softly. “Space for you to breathe. No neighbors too close. Not too far from the city either. Just… quiet. Safe.” he smiled. „And most important—no one’s gonna look for us here.”

You swallowed hard. “You—You did all this? Behind my back?”

He nodded. “Mhm,” he hummed. “You’ve been through so much. You deserve it.”

Your mouth opened but no words came out. You looked past him at the house. The porch. The garden. The sky. The life waiting to be filled.

And then back at James. You stepped into him and wrapped your arms around his middle, pressing your face into his chest.

“God—Thank you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Thank you. Thank you.”

He pulled back just enough to see your face. His hands came up to cradle your cheeks—thumbs gently brushing away the tears that managed to slip—with that same soft look in his eyes that still knocked the air from your lungs every time.

And then he kissed you. Slowly, as if he had to redeem himself for every moment he could have been kissing you, but wasn’t.

When he finally pulled back, you were breathless. You looked up at him, your gaze softening as your brows scrunched gently.

He smiled a little. “Come on,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “You need to see the inside.”

He didn’t wait for you to respond, just took your hand and led you up the porch steps. the wood creaked slightly beneath your feet.

James reached into his pocket, pulled out a key, and unlocked the front door.

The air inside was cool and smelled like fresh paint and cedar. A couch sat in the middle of the living room, covered in soft, warm-toned throws. A few moving boxes were stacked near the wall and there was already a photo of you and Becca on one of the shelves.

You blinked at it.

James cleared his throat beside you, a little sheepish now. “I’ve started… working on it. When you were still in the hospital. I wanted it to feel like home when you saw it.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy. “It does.”

He continued showing you all of the rooms and you didn’t mean to stare, but James looked so at ease here like this house had been waiting for him too.

The sunlight painted his jaw, that patchy stubble you loved. His broad shoulders strained against his t-shirt as he walked you through the rooms, pointing out little things he’d done like the flowers he planted out front, Becca’s room, the basement and the nursery he’d set up just in case.

You didn’t say much. You couldn’t.

Because every time he looked back at you with that quiet, hopeful smile, it hit you all over again.

He chose this. He chose you.

Finally.

You hadn’t let yourself want much during those hospital days—hadn’t let yourself think beyond getting through it. But now?

Now you had all you ever wanted—him, Becca and your stupid farm.

In the bedroom, he opened the closet, showing you a row of his clothes he’d already brought over.

You stepped up behind him, slipping your arms around his waist. Your chin came to rest on his shoulder as you breathed him in.

God you missed him so much. Missed having him like this. Soft and polite and all yours.

All yours.

He stilled. “You okay?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded against his back. “More than okay.”

You let your hands drift lower, under his shirt, fingers trailing the lines of his abdomen. And when he exhaled, you heard the tension crack right through him.

“I just missed you,” you whispered, mouth against his shoulder blade. “So much.”

You started pressing soft kisses all over his neck.

He turned.

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” he rasped, already cupping your face and pulling you into another kiss, this one deeper, hotter, his body pressing into yours until your back met the wall.

It was quick—greedy and desperate. But after all this years you expected nothing less.

The heat curled low in your belly—slow and heavy. Your hands found the hem of his shirt, tugging it up, and he let you, barely breaking the kiss to pull it over his head. Then he was back on you, mouths colliding.

Your shirt came next, and as he peeled it away, his eyes dropped—pausing when they reached the fresh pink scar just under your breast, where the wound had barely finished knitting itself closed.

James stilled. His hands hovered at your waist, fingers brushing but not gripping. His chest heaved against yours.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, eyes flicking up to yours. “Don’t wanna hurt you if the wound—”

You nodded, heart thudding. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He let out a shaky breath, relief and hunger warping his features all at once. Still, his touch was unbearably gentle when he brought one hand to your side—tracing the edge of the scar with a reverence that made your eyes sting.

“I almost lost you,” he whispered like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

You leaned in, nose brushing his, hand sliding up his chest. “You didn’t.”

And then you kissed him again—deeper now, needing him in a way that was more than physical. Needing to be reminded that this wasn’t a dream. That you were alive. That he was real. That this house, this moment, this love… all of it was finally yours.

He picked you up with a quiet grunt, hands splayed under your thighs, mouth never leaving yours as he carried you across the room. He laid you down on the bed, every movement careful, every kiss more open, more bruising.

He pulled back just enough to look down at you—at your flushed cheeks and the way your chest rose and fell so quickly.

“I almost forgot how fucking beautiful you are,” he breathed, brushing your hair back with a tenderness that made your heart crack open.

Then his hands moved with unhurried care, sliding the straps of your bra down your shoulders, watching your face the whole time.

He undid the clasp. Then he leaned in, pressing gentle, open-mouthed kisses across your chest—slow, warm, achingly gentle. He kissed the skin above your heart, down the curve of your breast, and finally, just beneath it—where the scar from the bullet wound was.

His lips lingered there the longest.

“I love you,” he whispered against your skin.

“I love you,” you whispered back, your voice soft and trembling.

His hands slid down to the waistband of your jeans. He undid the button, tugged the zipper down, and helped ease them off, along with your underwear.

You reached for him then, fingers at his belt, his eyes never leaving yours. You worked the leather free, pulled open the button, dragged the zipper down. He pushed his pants down and kicked them aside, dropping them forgotten on the floor.

His fingers tightened on your thigh as he settled between your legs, the heat of him pressing against your core, and he kissed you again—slow and deep.

He guided himself with one hand. And when he finally pushed in, your gasp caught between your lips and his, your fingers clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in just slightly.

He filled you slow and careful like he was afraid to hurt you, like he was still thinking about that healing wound beneath your breast.

“God—” he whispered, voice ragged against your mouth. “You feel so fucking good, baby. Missed this so much…”

Your head fell back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as you breathed through the stretch, the slow slide of him inside you, deeper, inch by inch, until he was buried fully, his body trembling with restraint.

“Oh, fuck—” you gasped, and he kissed your throat, your jaw, your lips again, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

He began to move then, slow and deep, every thrust deliberate—meant to make you feel it, to show you just how much he loved you without any words. His hand splayed at your lower back, pulling you tighter to him, like he wanted to melt into you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, breath warm against your cheek. “I’ve got you, baby.”

You’d dreamed of this. In dark, lonely nights, in the quiet ache of missing him. His breath on your neck. His arms around you. The way he held you like something sacred. You used to wonder if it would ever happen again. If you’d ever get this version of him back.

Now he was here. Inside you. All of him, finally, after all those years spent apart. After everything you both endured, the hurt and silence and heartbreak… you had him. You had him.

He moved with reverence, hips rolling in slow, purposeful rhythm, every thrust drawing out little whimpers from you that he swallowed with his kisses. You couldn’t keep your hands still—clutching his shoulders, smoothing over his back, carding through his hair—like you still needed to prove to yourself that he was real. That this was real.

God, he felt so good. So warm. So right.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity of it all—how your body trembled under his, how he murmured your name like it was his only prayer.

It didn’t take long. The tension had been coiled in you for years. The ache. The craving. The need.

And then he hit that spot—just right—and the breath punched out of you in a ragged gasp. You arched, cried out, your body unraveling around him as your release tore through you with a force that knocked the air from your lungs.

You came apart and he held you through it, mouth brushing over your cheek, your jaw, your chest—murmuring soft things you could barely hear over the rush in your ears.

“I’ve got you… I’ve got you, sweetheart, that’s it…” His voice was ragged now.

Your release and the way you were pulsing around him, whimpering and clinging to him—it all undid him.

With a low, broken groan, James buried his face against your shoulder. His hips stuttered, rhythm faltering as the tension finally snapped inside him. He spilled into you, holding you impossibly close.

He stayed there for a beat—his chest pressed to yours, breath catching in his throat, the last of his release drawing through him in slow, aching waves. You felt the way he trembled, how his hands stayed spread across your back.

He didn’t move for a long moment. Just breathed. Pressed against you, still inside you. You could feel his heartbeat. Fast. Wild. Real.

You ran your fingers through his hair gently, the strands damp at the nape of his neck. He let out a long breath—one that sounded almost like a sigh of relief.

“You okay?” you whispered, brushing your lips against his temple.

He chuckled, low and warm, and pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were glassy, ocean blue and overwhelmed.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I just—God, I love you. So much.”

You leaned in and pecked his lips. “I love you too.”

He pulled out of you slowly, carefully, and you both exhaled. His arms came around you instantly, drawing you into his chest, skin against skin, heartbeats slowing down.

You rested your head against his shoulder, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over the scarred skin of his chest.

“I stopped thinking I’d have this,” you said quietly. Almost to yourself.

James looked at you, his brows pinching slightly. He brought a hand up to your hair, brushing it back with a reverence that made your chest ache. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For everything.”

Your eyes shimmered at the edges. You leaned in and kissed him.

“It’s okay,” you whispered against his lips. “I wasn’t a saint myself but I waited for you. And now you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time. And you stayed there for a moment, mouths just barely brushing.

But then you cracked a small smile and murmured, “Although… I must admit—you have terrible luck with girlfriends.”

He blinked at you, then let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t—”

“I mean… what are the chances?” you grinned and chuckled, nudging his side.

He groaned, burying his face in your neck. “I told you I’m not lucky in this sphere.”

You smiled into his hair, fingers gently combing through the strands. “I mean… it’s good that at least one of them really did love you. Still does. Even though it took you a while to realize that.”

He shifted, just enough to look at you again.

“Yeah, very good,” he whispered.

His eyes were heavy with everything he didn’t know how to say—regret, relief, love. He brought his hand to your cheek, stroking just beneath your eye with the pad of his thumb.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said, barely above a breath.

You leaned into his touch. “Maybe not,” you teased softly, a smile tugging at your lips. “But you’ve got me anyway.”

———

A few months later, the early morning sun spilled across the fields, casting a soft glow over the pale blue house you now called home.

Birds chirped somewhere off in the trees. The wind rustled gently through the tall grass. The air smelled like wildflowers and somewhere in the back garden, the old wooden swing creaked.

You were barefoot on the kitchen floor, your favorite oversized shirt hanging loose over your legs as you poured coffee into two mismatched mugs.

Behind you, little footsteps padded in from the hallway.

“Mama?”

You turned, already grinning. Becca stood there in her unicorn pajamas, hair a sleepy mess, clutching her plush rabbit in one arm. She rubbed at her eyes with the other.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered, crouching down as she padded into your arms, giving you a big hug. “Did you sleep good?”

She nodded against your shoulder. “Where’s Daddy?”

“Outside,” James answered from the door just behind her. He stepped in from the porch, shirt slightly damp from morning work, hair tied in a man bun. He looked at you first, and then at Becca in your arms and then he smiled.

“You makin’ trouble already?” he teased gently, brushing Becca’s curls as he passed, stealing a kiss from your cheek on his way to the counter.

“No,” Becca said through a yawn. “I just woke up.”

James set his gloves down and leaned against the counter, reaching for his coffee. “Then you better come outside with me in a bit. That rabbit of yours promised to help me feed the chickens.”

Becca looked down at her plush bunny. “She did not,” she said seriously.

“She did last night,” James said with mock conviction. “Told me she wanted to learn responsibility.”

You bit back a laugh as Becca narrowed her eyes at her bunny, suspicious. “Okay,” she finally decided. “But I want pancakes first.”

You glanced at James. He was already smirking over his coffee. “I’ll get the pan.”

He reached behind you to grab it, but didn’t pull away right away. Instead, his hand brushed across your lower back. Then again. And again. Just to feel you. Just to remind himself you were real and here.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You turned to him, resting your hands on his chest. “I know. I love you too.”

His smile softened, then his gaze drifted down, lingering between your bodies.

And slowly, tenderly, his hands followed. They moved over your waist, then lower, until they came to rest on the soft curve of your belly. Still small. Still subtle. But unmistakably there.

You watched him. Watched the way he touched you, reverently and gently.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked quietly, his thumbs brushing gently across the fabric stretched over your bump.

You leaned into his touch, into him. “Tired. A little sore. But… good. Really good.”

He nodded, still looking down. Still holding you like that.

You closed your eyes, sinking into the moment—his touch, his words, the safety of his presence.

And he looked at you like he wasn’t sure he deserved that. Maybe he was still trying to believe he hadn’t imagined this.

You, this life, this second chance.

“Daddy, look!”

You both turned, startled by Becca’s little voice cutting through the calm. She was now standing barefoot by the screen door, pointing with wide, excited eyes.

“A cat!”

James blinked, looked out through the garden.

Sure enough, there it was—a fluffy white cat perched at the edge of the fence, tail flicking, staring directly back at Becca like it was just as curious about her.

James grinned. “Well, would you look at that.”

“Can I go see it? Please? I’ll be gentle, I promise, promise, promise!”

He looked to you with a lifted brow, silently asking for backup.

You shrugged. “As long as you don’t chase it.”

Becca squealed and bolted off the porch, arms flailing like a little windmill. “Hi, cat! I’m Becca!”

James laughed under his breath, wrapping an arm around your shoulder again. “We’re gonna have to keep that cat, you know that?…”

You leaned your head against his chest. “Yup.”

He kissed the top of your head, eyes still on Becca as she tiptoed closer to the cat, whispering things like “you can come live with us if you want” and “I have snacks!”

You smiled softly. “She’ll be the best big sister. I just know it.”

James’s arms tightened around you at that. “She will be. That’s for sure.”

Outside, Becca was still talking to the cat. Then she turned her head back at you. “Maybe we can name her Snowy or Alpine!”

James snorted. You smiled.

And then Becca shouted again “She’s coming to me!” as the cat finally took a hesitant step toward her.

The screen door creaked behind you. The breeze carried the smell of flowers. You could hear birds chirping in the distance.

And as you stood there, with your hand over your bump and James holding you close and Becca giggling barefoot in the grass—you realized…

This was it.

You’d lost everything—your job, your safety, your name. You had to run. Had to raise your daughter in strange country, always looking over your shoulder, not sure anymore what really home was.

But somehow… you’d made it here.

A home rebuilt from the wreckage. A love that survived the fire. A daughter with flowers in her hair and laughter in her lungs.

And a man who’d once been broken, now standing beside you—now whole, because you never stopped waiting for him.

It wasn’t easy. It never would be. But this? This was yours. And after everything you’d survived…

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

A/N: We’ve reached the end, guys! Oof… this is it. I hope you liked the ending. Maybe it wasn’t what some of you expected, but it was exactly what I needed. This was always how the story was meant to end from the very beginning. I had a lot of alternative endings suggested to me along the way, but I stuck with this one. I just needed my babies to be happy on the farm…

As I’ve mentioned a few times already, I’ll be taking a small break from writing. This series truly drained me in every possible way 😭 My inbox is still open though, so feel free to message me! I’ll still be active here on Tumblr, I just probably won’t be posting anything new for a little while.

Thank you so much for sticking with me through this journey. Every single comment, reblog, and message about this fic has genuinely melted my heart. I love you all more than words can say. I never expected this story to gain the attention it did, and I truly don’t know how to thank you enough. ❤️ and so sorry for teasing you all like that with the angst… #guilty

series tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you, it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @iamthatonefangirl @muchwita @its-in-the-woods @taqmari @opheliabbarnes @rabknowstheend @pineapplechuncks @infinitepersuasion @sweetestharley @adalvsseb @miss-chuchu @nandanandada @globetrotter28 @whorunthemfworld-girls @madlyinlovewmattmurd0ck @ruexj282 @xamapolax @bloodmocha @castawaycreature @wakemeornot @lilylilyyyyyy @rue963 @miirasarchive @fleurenoir @figtreesandmoonlight @steph88x @starstruck-cowgirl @okaytrashpanda @lovely-seb @sinistersnakey @bananaminn @readscreamrepeat @yes-ilovetowrite @g0back2bed @jbuckybarnesimp @zombi3-girlz @paristheonewhoreads @justagirlcalledaddie @lovinqbella @thriving-n-jiving @lumpypoll @avivarougestan @wickedfun9 @borkybawnes @levisungjingwoo2099 @gilly903@akiyhara @obsessed-oops @luvwithau @wildflowersandvibranium

⋆⁺₊✧ SERIES MASTERLIST

⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

Thinking about this era right about noww 🎀🖤

[tenaciousnerdbucket]

Illegal

mob!bucky barnes x fbi!reader

summary: You’re an FBI agent sent undercover to get close to the most dangerous mob boss in the city. But the deeper you go, the harder it gets to remember which side you’re really on.

word count: 12k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! for all the tags/warnings, please check series masterlist since it may contain spoilers.

Chapter Nine — “Home” | Previous

The house was still. Quiet in that fragile way it sometimes is after a storm. Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, pale and soft, catching on the edges of furniture and highlighting the mess you’d left behind—an abandoned mug, a dish towel crumpled on the counter, Becca’s rabbit lying facedown on the floor where she must’ve dropped it when you carried her back to bed.

You sat at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cup of tea you didn’t remember making. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was thick. Unresolved. Your ears almost rang from it, as if the echo of the last night’s fight still lived somewhere in the walls.

You hadn’t slept.

You’d spent the night replaying every word. Every raised voice. Every time his eyes met yours and it felt like you’d been gutted all over again. Every time you’d almost said something and swallowed it back. The moment Becca interrupted—thank god, honestly—and the way James had left to his room after you tucked her in again, barely meeting your gaze as he murmured a goodnight.

Now your head ached from the weight of everything unsaid. From the way your chest still throbbed with that horrible mix of shame and love and anger. You didn’t know what you were supposed to feel. All you knew was that something inside you had cracked deeper than it had in years—and no amount of pretending was going to patch it up.

Not after what he had told you.

You stared into your mug, eyes unfocused, hands gone cold.

Going back to the States.

The words played in your mind like a loop, James’ voice still raw in your ears, the way he’d said it—sharp and exhausted and desperate. Like it was the only thing left he could offer.

Maybe he was right.

You hated the thought. God, you hated it. Because if he was right, then all this—years of scraping your life back together, of carving out a home here, of doing your best with what you had—maybe none of it was enough. Maybe you weren’t enough.

But wasn’t Becca what mattered the most?

You looked over your shoulder instinctively, toward the hallway where her bedroom was. You could picture her still curled under her blanket, the one with stars on it, her little fists balled near her face, her stuffed rabbit cradled against her chest. Safe. Loved.

But was that enough?

James had said she deserved more.

A childhood that didn’t feel like exile. A father who wasn’t just a distant, half-familiar visitor every couple of weeks. A life with roots, with support, with people who could help you carry the weight.

And the truth was—no matter how much it hurt to admit—you were tired.

Tired of holding it all by yourself. Tired of pretending like you didn’t wish someone would hold you for once. You hadn’t moved here to punish yourself, but it had started to feel that way. Somewhere between fighting for James and fighting to be a mother, you’d stopped asking what you needed.

Maybe it was time to swallow your pride.

To stop seeing compromise as defeat. To stop needing to be right so badly it cost you everything else.

Becca deserved more than your stubbornness. More than the silence between her parents. Maybe—just maybe—she deserved a chance to grow up where she could look at her father and not just see a stranger walking through the door every few weekends.

And maybe, you thought, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes—

Maybe you deserved another start too.

The soft creak of the floorboards made you look up.

James stood in the doorway, still hazy from sleep, hair messy, shirt wrinkled. His eyes found you, then flicked quickly to the countertop, to the mug in your hands, to anything that wasn’t too direct. His voice, when it finally came, was rough and low.

“Morning.”

You swallowed. “Morning,” you answered quietly, rising from your chair almost automatically.

You moved to the kettle, reaching for another mug—his mug, the one he always used when he was here, still in the same cupboard spot it had been for years. You tried not to think too hard about what that meant. Habit or hope—you weren’t sure anymore.

The silence settled like dust. Heavy. Still. You poured the hot water and turned slightly, not quite looking at him.

“Coffee?” you asked, voice just above a whisper.

He nodded, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You both stood there, the quiet stretching out like a thread you didn’t dare pull. You handed him the mug, and your fingers brushed for a second—just a second—but it was enough to remember everything from the night before. The shouting. The cracks in both your voices. The entire fucking truth.

You sat back down slowly, fingers curling around your own mug as you stared into it, watching the surface tremble from the faint tremor in your hand.

The silence dragged for a few moments longer. After a moment, quietly—barely above the hum of the kettle still cooling—you spoke.

“I’ll talk with Mike.”

James looked up, brows knitting. “What?”

You finally met his gaze, steady this time despite the tightness in your throat. “I’ll talk with him. About going back.”

His mouth opened slightly like he wanted to question it—but you cut him off before he could speak.

“For Becca,” you added, voice firmer now. “If there’s even a chance that it’ll be better for her… then I’ll do it.”

He blinked, clearly surprised. You watched his expression shift, the tension in his jaw flickering into something unreadable. He looked like he didn’t know whether to argue or thank you.

“I don’t know if I can convince him,” you murmured after a moment, eyes dropping to your hands. “So I can’t promise anything. But I’ll try.”

The words sat between you like something fragile. You weren’t sure why it felt like a truce. Maybe because for once, you weren’t fighting. Maybe because it wasn’t about the two of you anymore.

James watched you for a beat, his face unreadable in the soft morning light. Then, finally, he spoke.

“Thank you,” he said.

———

A few days passed—slow and heavy and tangled in everything unsaid.

It was always like this when James visited. Intense. Strange. Familiar in ways that hurt.

He’d thrown himself into time with Rebecca like he always did, and she soaked it up like sunlight. They went to the park, made pancakes, watched movies on the floor like they used to—like things were easy. And maybe, for her, they still were. Maybe that was the only thing that mattered.

You stood back a lot, observing. Half grateful, half aching. He was so good with her. Effortless. Natural. Like he’d never left.

But you hadn’t forgotten what he said that night. About trust. About moving on.

About how he still loved you but couldn’t forgive you.

And he hadn’t brought it up again. Neither had you.

Instead, the days crawled by in a blur of small things—cups of coffee in tense silence, brushing past each other in the hallway, folding laundry while he read to Becca on the couch. You caught him watching you once, expression unreadable, and he looked away before you could say something.

But through it all, you kept thinking about what he said. About going back. About Becca’s roots. About giving her something solid.

And you knew you had to talk to Mike.

You just… couldn’t yet.

Not because you weren’t willing. Not because you hadn’t made up your mind.

But because the idea of asking Mike—to even suggest going back to the States, even just for a short visit—felt heavier than it should. You weren’t planning on moving back overnight. You didn’t even know if that would ever be possible. But a visit… a few weeks, maybe. Let Becca see where you came from. Let her feel close to something that’s part of her.

Still, you doubted it.

Not your decision—him.

You doubted Mike would say yes. You doubted he’d trust the idea or you. And even if he wanted to help, maybe he wouldn’t be able to. Maybe getting you back there—even temporarily—was more complicated than either of you realized.

And that scared you.

Because if he said no… if he couldn’t manage it… if it all fell through… what would you even tell James?

So you waited until James came back to the States. You told yourself you were preparing. But really, you were stalling—afraid of what might happen if you tried.

Or worse… what wouldn’t.

It took you another full day. Another restless night of turning over everything James said. Another quiet dinner with Becca where she asked when Daddy would come back again. Another moment of sitting in the dark with your thoughts spinning so loud you couldn’t even hear yourself breathe.

And then—finally—you called Mike.

You didn’t script it. You didn’t even know how to begin. But when his voice came through the line, casually gruff as ever with a, “Hey, you alive?”—you almost hung up.

Almost.

Instead, you inhaled and said, “Hey… I need to ask you something. And I know it’s a lot. I know it’s… maybe impossible. But I need you to listen.”

There was a pause. “Okay…”

You told him. Not everything—God, not everything—but enough.

That you wanted to go back. Just for a short visit. That you thought it might be good for Becca to spend some time in the States, to see what life with her dad could feel like. That maybe things could shift if—

“Are you kidding me?” His voice was sharp, stunned, already laced with frustration.

“You want to go back?” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard right. “After everything I’ve done to keep you out of that mess? You want to just go waltzing in for a little vacation?”

“No—Mike—please.” You swallowed down the panic, your voice cracking. “Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

He didn’t answer right away.

So you pressed on. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t for Becca.”

Silence.

“I know how it sounds. But she deserves to know him, not just wait around for visits when he can manage to fly across the ocean. She deserves to feel like she’s not being raised on scraps. Please. Just… help me figure out how.”

You waited.

And waited.

The line buzzed faintly between you, static and tension twisting together.

And then finally, Mike sighed—long, slow, and exhausted. “I need a drink,” he muttered.

You let out the smallest breath of relief. Not a yes. But not a no.

“Take one,” you said softly. “I’ll wait.”

He didn’t laugh. You weren’t sure if you expected him to.

There was a rustle on the other end—movement, a sigh, maybe the clink of glass. Then quiet again. Until—

“You know what you’re asking me, right?” he said, more measured now. “You’re asking me to undo every firewall I’ve set up. Every contact I’ve burned to keep you safe, off the grid. And for what? A week-long visit with the man who shattered your fucking life?”

You closed your eyes. “He’s still her father.”

“And I was the one who picked up the pieces when he told you to leave.”

You flinched. It wasn’t fair—but it wasn’t wrong either.

“I’m not asking to move back. Not now. I just…” You paced, one hand pressed to your forehead. “I want Becca to have something real. Some idea of what it could be like to be around him more, not just look at pictures and wait for scheduled holidays. I need to see if this is even something that could work before I offer it to her like it’s an actual choice.”

“You think a week’s going to answer that?” he asked, skeptical.

“I think… I have to try.”

Mike sighed again, longer this time. “And if I say no?”

You were quiet.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask James for help,” you said eventually. “But I’m asking you because I trust you. I’m not doing this behind your back, Mike. I’m trying to do it right.”

That struck something. You heard it in the silence that followed.

After a long beat, he said, “I’ll try.”

You smiled to yourself at that.

“And I’m not promising anything until I see if it’s even possible. Flights, papers, logistics—hell, even you getting through a border checkpoint is a risk.”

“I know,” you said again, quieter. “But if anyone can make it happen… it’s you.”

That made him snort, bitterly amused. “Flattery? Now?”

You cracked the tiniest smile. “Desperation.”

He was quiet again. Then he sighed. “Alright. Give me a couple of days. I’ll call you.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he muttered. “You might not like what I find.”

You swallowed. “I’ll take my chances.”

And when the call ended, your hands were still shaking.

———

It’s been two days.

It was late afternoon. Becca was running around the park in circles, her giggles ringing out as she chased butterflies with her stuffed rabbit tucked firmly under one arm.

You sat on a bench, arms wrapped around yourself despite the warmth. You hadn’t told her anything yet—how could you, when you didn’t know if it would even be possible? You didn’t want to put another maybe into her world. She’d had enough of those.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Mike.

Your stomach turned instantly.

You hesitated, watching Becca a moment longer, grounding yourself in her small, delighted movements—before swiping to answer.

“Hey,” you said, trying to keep your voice light. “Tell me you have good news.”

There was a pause.

“Well,” Mike said. “That depends on how you define good.”

Your heart dropped, but you didn’t let it show in your voice. “Tell me everything.”

“I pulled every favor I had left in that hemisphere,” he said, voice clipped. “Got a temporary route lined up. It’s not official, it’s not pretty, and it won’t last more than a week before the door closes again. But it’s something.”

You stopped walking. “You’re serious?”

“I wouldn’t be calling if I wasn’t.”

A long exhale passed your lips. You felt dizzy.

“But you’re gonna need to move fast,” he added. “I’ve arranged a soft clearance window for next Friday—eight days from now. You’ll have to be back before the following weekend. No extensions. No risks.”

“Mike…”

“I know.”

“You’re a goddamn miracle.”

“I’m a stressed-out criminal, who’s gonna need a bottle of whiskey and a new identity if this blows up in my face,” he muttered. But even then, you heard the faint smile in his voice. “You sure about this?”

You glanced at Becca, at the way she twirled and pointed and smiled like the world hadn’t broken her heart yet.

“I’m sure.”

“Then pack light,” he said. “I’ll text you instructions later.”

And with that, he hung up.

You stayed frozen for a moment, phone still in your hand.

Becca ran up to you, breathless and bright-eyed, cheeks flushed from the sun.

“Look, Mommy!” she beamed, opening her tiny fist to show a crushed daisy. “I picked this for you.”

You lowered to her level, heart so full and aching you could barely breathe.

“Thank you, baby,” you whispered, pulling her into your arms.

You held her close, her warmth pressed against your chest, and whispered into her hair.

“We’re going on a little adventure soon.”

———

Next couple of days passed in a blur.

You didn’t tell Becca right away. Not out of fear, not really. But because once you said it out loud, it would all become real—and you still needed a little more time to steady yourself. To believe this wasn’t a joke.

But once you started preparing, it all came fast.

You dug out the old duffel bag from the back of your closet. It still smelled faintly like dust and long roads, and it felt heavier than it should’ve when you unzipped it.

You packed light. Like Mike told you to. Just the essentials. Clothes for the week, documents. A small emergency kit of Becca’s meds and snacks in case something went wrong. One of her dresses with the pink flowers she loved.

Becca watched you silently from the hallway at first. Quiet and curious.

Until finally, she asked, “Are we going somewhere?”

You sat on the floor, looking up at her. “Just for a little bit,” you said gently. “A short trip. But it’s a special one.”

Her eyes lit up, suspiciously fast. “Is Daddy gonna be there?”

You hesitated.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Are you happy?”

She nodded, rabbit clutched tight to her chest. “He said he would take me to the zoo next time he sees me.”

You smiled faintly, throat tight. “Then maybe he will.”

That night, after Becca went to sleep with her bunny under her arm and her shoes placed neatly by the door—just in case you left early in the morning—you sat alone on the couch, staring at the boarding instructions Mike sent.

Your heart thudded unevenly. Part excitement. Part panic.

You were doing this.

Not for James. Not even really for yourself.

But for her.

Again, you were stepping into the unknown not to run away this time—but to try. Even if it meant getting hurt again.

You took a deep breath, reached for your phone, and typed.

You | 9:27PM

Hey. Just wanted to let you know… we’ll be flying in this Friday. Just for a week. Mike pulled the strings.

You stared at the message a second longer, then hit send.

Your phone buzzed almost instantly.

James | 9:27PM

Really? Is it safe, though? Do you need any help?

You stared at the screen for a long beat.

God, it hit something in you. That immediate concern. The disbelief edged with something softer. Something that said he hadn’t actually expected you to go through with it—but now that you had, he wanted to make sure you were okay.

You could picture him reading the message, standing in his kitchen or maybe still at work, thumb hesitating before pressing send, because he didn’t want to push. But he still wanted to know.

Your fingers hovered over the screen before typing back.

You | 9:28PM

You don’t have to worry. Mike made arrangements. I’ll be careful.

You paused, then added…

You | 9:28PM

We’ll be alright. He’s gonna take care of us. Just wanted you to know.

Another pause. And then…

You | 9:29PM

She’s been asking about you. A lot.

You didn’t expect a reply right away. But after a few minutes, it came.

James | 9:32PM

Tell her I miss her, yeah? And that I’ll see her soon.

And then, one more.

James | 9:33PM

And… thank you. For doing this.

You read that last line twice. Then you locked your phone, leaned back into the couch, and exhaled.

The decision was made. The bags were packed.

Now all that was left was to go.

———

The airport was loud in that sterile, disorienting way that always made your head spin—too many bodies moving at once, too much noise bouncing off the high ceilings, the dull ache of jet lag sitting like a weight behind your eyes.

Becca was half-asleep in your arms, her head resting on your shoulder, clutching her stuffed rabbit like it was her only anchor in the chaos. Her hair smelled like airplane air and apples from the juice box she barely finished hours ago.

You stepped through the sliding doors into arrivals—and there he was.

Mike.

Same tired eyes, worn black hoodie, unreadable expression. He looked older. Maybe because of the beard or maybe because of everything you’d dragged him through this week. You hadn’t seen him in months.

He spotted you and gave a small wave, then quickly came forward to take your carry-on.

“You look like hell,” he muttered as a greeting, but his voice was quiet. Careful.

You let out a soft, tired laugh. “Good to see you too.”

He looked at Becca, sleeping in your arms, and his expression softened a little.

“She did okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Better than I expected. But… yeah. She’s tired.”

Mike didn’t say much after that. He just led you both to the car, helped get your bag in the trunk, and opened the backseat for you to slide in with Becca still curled up against you.

Only once the car was moving—only once the silence between you stretched into something too long—did he finally speak again.

“You sure this is what you want?” he asked, eyes on the road.

“I’m sure I have to try.”

He didn’t nod. He didn’t argue either.

“…It’s not permanent,” you added after a beat, almost like a shield. “Just a visit. I need to see if this even makes sense. If it’s something that could work.”

Mike’s grip on the wheel tightened for a second. You saw it from the corner of your eye.

“You know it’s not just up to you,” he muttered.

“I know,” you said quietly. “But I couldn’t not try, Mike. For her.”

That silenced him again.

You glanced down at your daughter, tucked safely into your side.

And somewhere beneath the exhaustion and uncertainty and nerves… you felt relieved.

The ride was mostly quiet after that. Becca stirred once or twice, but stayed curled into your side, her hand still wrapped tightly around the rabbit’s ear. The city moved around you outside the window—familiar and not. You hadn’t been back in so long that it almost felt imagined, like walking back into a dream you’d sworn off years ago.

Mike pulled into a narrow side street eventually, the buildings getting more residential, more faded. He slowed near a dull brick complex with cracked steps and a rusted fence, tucked away between a laundromat and a shuttered grocery store.

“This is it,” he muttered, putting the car in park. “Second floor. Back corner. No one will bother you here.”

You looked up at the building. It didn’t look like much—definitely not the kind of place you imagined bringing your daughter to—but it was safe. Discreet. Temporary.

He shifted in his seat and glanced back at you before you opened the door.

“Head low, please,” he said, quiet but stern. “And don’t you do anything stupid.”

You blinked at him. “Like what?”

He gave you a look. “Like contacting him before I say it’s clear. Like forgetting what this man is involved in.”

You swallowed and nodded, reaching for the door handle. “I won’t.”

He didn’t soften. He just held your gaze for a second longer, then stepped out and went around to get your bag from the trunk.

You gathered Becca in your arms again—she whined sleepily but didn’t wake up—and followed him inside. The stairs creaked with every step, the hallway smelled like dust and old paint, and the door to the apartment stuck before it finally opened with a loud groan.

It was small. Two rooms. A mattress on the floor. A folded blanket on the couch. A kettle on the stove. Clean, but bare.

“It’s not much,” Mike muttered, setting your bag down near the wall. “But no one knows it’s under your name. Or mine.”

You nodded, adjusting Becca’s weight on your hip. “Thank you.”

He looked at you for a moment longer—longer than necessary. Like he wanted to say something. Like maybe he still didn’t believe you were really here.

But instead, he just nodded.

“I’ll check in tomorrow,” he said.

———

The next day dragged like wet paint on cold walls.

You sat by the window for hours, barely blinking, barely moving, just… waiting. Waiting for Mike. For a knock. For a sign. For anything. You hadn’t even let Becca open the curtains out of your own paranoid. The apartment felt like a box—airtight, silent, stale. The only sounds were the ticking of the cheap plastic clock on the wall and Becca’s increasingly dramatic sighs as she flopped from the mattress to the couch to the floor.

“Is he coming soon?” she asked for the third time that hour, her voice whiny as she clutched her rabbit by the ear again.

“He said he would,” you murmured, glancing at the door again.

“But you said that last time,” she groaned, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling like it had betrayed her. “This place is boring. There’s not even any TV.”

You couldn’t blame her. The apartment was nearly empty aside from a few things Mike had stocked for your stay. No toys. No books. Just a couple of blankets, dry cereal, and whatever was in Becca’s backpack. You’d tried distracting her with drawing on paper napkins and telling her stories from memory, but she’d quickly grown tired of both.

Becca crawled across the mattress and laid her head on your lap dramatically.

“I miss our home,” she whispered. “And the backyard. And the neighbors’ cat.”

You brushed her hair back gently, fingers lingering in her tangled curls.

“I know, baby,” you said. “Just a little longer, okay?”

She pouted. “Are we gonna see Daddy now?”

Your heart squeezed. You didn’t know how to answer. Not yet. Maybe. Hopefully. You leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “We’ll see.”

Another hour passed.

And then—finally—three quick knocks on the door.

You stood up so fast Becca nearly tumbled off your lap. You told her to stay where she was and crossed the room, heart in your throat as you peeked through the peephole.

Mike.

You opened the door just a crack.

“Is it safe?” you asked immediately.

Mike gave a quick nod, scanning the hallway behind you out of habit before stepping inside. His eyes swept over the apartment, then to Becca curled up in there.

“Yeah,” he said. “For now.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a phone—cheap, matte black, already powered on.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “Use this. Only this.”

You blinked at it, confused. “What—?”

“Don’t use your number,” he cut in. “Don’t use anything tied to your name, your past SIM, nothing. If you’re gonna contact Barnes—do it from this. No exceptions.”

You swallowed thickly, staring at the burner in your palm like it weighed more than it should. The screen was blank, clean. New. It didn’t have a single trace of you on it.

Mike’s voice lowered, firm. “I’m not just being paranoid. There’s been eyes on him for years now. You wanted to play it safe—so play it safe.”

You gave a small nod. “Okay… okay. I got it.”

He looked at you a beat longer, then let out a quiet breath. “Good.”

Behind you, Becca sat up slowly, her little face curious but wary, holding her rabbit tight as she whispered, “Hi, uncle Mike.”

Mike softened for a second. “Hi, Becca.”

Then he glanced back at you, jaw tight. “That would be it then. Please, stay safe…”

You nodded, heart hammering beneath your ribs, and watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence that followed felt strange—thick with anticipation, with nerves. But mostly, it felt like a new beginning.

You turned back to Becca slowly, kneeling by her side.

“Well…” you whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We can finally call Daddy and see him.”

She lit up immediately, eyes wide with excitement. “Really?”

You smiled, even though your throat was tight. “Really.”

———

After you talked to James he had sent the address with a simple text.

James | 3:11PM

See you soon. Tell Beccy I can’t wait.

And now you were here.

You stood in front of the gate, Becca’s small hand clutching yours tightly. The air smelled like pine and pavement still hot from the sun. The house—or villa, really—was just beyond the sleek, modern gate, nestled in a quiet stretch of land just outside the city. Stone and glass, muted beige tones, and ivy climbing up one side. There was even a goddamn fountain in front.

You swallowed hard. This wasn’t the apartment you remembered. This wasn’t the city life he used to complain about hating but never left. This was new. Clean. Detached. Rich.

“Wow,” Becca whispered, eyes wide as she tilted her head back to look up at the house. Her bunny’s ear was dragging in the dirt, but she didn’t care. “Is this… Daddy’s house?”

You nodded slowly, tightening your grip on her hand. “Yeah, baby. This is where he lives now.”

You didn’t know how you felt. Like something had shifted beneath your feet and hadn’t settled yet. You hadn’t even rung the doorbell yet, and already your heart was racing like a warning.

The gate clicked, unlocked.

The front door opened.

And there he was—stepping out in a dark t-shirt and jeans, hair slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it too much. He looked tired. He looked handsome. He looked like everything that still hurt.

Becca let go of your hand and ran forward.

“Daddy!”

He caught her mid-run, lifting her into his arms with a soft, choked laugh. “Hi, baby girl,” he said, holding her close. “Missed you so much.”

You stayed by the gate for a second longer, your heart somehow both splintering and softening all at once.

Then, finally, you made yourself walk toward them. James looked over Becca’s shoulder and met your eyes.

His expression softened.

“God,” he said, shifting her a little in his arms, “thank you so much for doing this.”

You gave a short shrug, arms crossed over your chest even though it wasn’t cold. “I don’t even know if it’s safe being near you with her,” you said honestly, voice low. “It’s probably the most stupid thing I’ve done in a while.”

His jaw tensed, but he nodded like he expected that reaction. “It is safe,” he said firmly. “A hundred percent. I’ve taken care of everything. No one knows. No one’s watching. And I wouldn’t have asked you to come here in the first place if I wasn’t sure.”

You looked at him hard for a moment, searching for a crack, for a hesitation.

There wasn’t one.

“I wouldn’t risk her,” he added, gentler now. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“I know…” you murmured, eyes flicking down to Becca, who had her cheek pressed sleepily against his shoulder now, her rabbit squished between them.

James gave a soft sigh, then shifted his stance. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

You followed him up the steps, glancing around at the place as he unlocked the door. The house was massive—tucked away behind gates and trees, all sleek lines and quiet wealth. It looked like something out of a magazine.

“Fancy,” you muttered under your breath as you stepped into the cool, pristine entryway.

James chuckled, just a little. “Well… business has been going great recently.”

You huffed, not quite a laugh, but close.

You stepped further inside, your shoes soft against the hardwood floors, the scent of something clean and woodsy lingering in the air.

“It kinda feels good to be back in America,” you said quietly, almost to yourself. “Even if it’s just for a while.”

James closed the door behind you, locking it with a soft click. He didn’t answer at first. Just stood there, watching you take it in.

“I’m glad you came,” he said. “Really.”

You managed a weak smile, your fingers absently brushing the strap of your bag as your eyes lingered on the two of them.

Becca still hadn’t let go of James.

If anything, she clung tighter now—her little arms around his neck, her face nestled close to his, as if to make sure he wouldn’t disappear again. And god, she was talking so much—rattling off every little thing she’d wanted to tell him over the phone but couldn’t.

“Daddy, I saw a bird on our way here and it looked like the one from the book, remember?—and oh, I brought Bunny, look, she came too! Do you think Bunny missed you? She did, I think she did—”

James chuckled, a sound so soft and foreign in all the tension that had filled the past weeks it almost made your chest ache.

He shifted her slightly, holding her with one arm while gently brushing her hair back with the other. “I missed Bunny too,” he said seriously, humoring her. “And you. So much, sweetheart.”

Becca beamed at that, proud and giddy. She rested her head on his shoulder, still babbling about everything and nothing.

You watched quietly, the sight equal parts comfort and ache—like watching something beautiful you weren’t sure you had a place in anymore. But still, your heart tugged.

Maybe this really was worth it. Even if it was only for a week.

———

Some hours later, the sun was starting to dip low behind the trees outside his window, casting long golden shadows across the floor of the living room. The house was quiet now—peaceful in a way that made the day feel heavier, fuller.

Becca had finally dozed off, curled up on the big couch under a light blanket, her rabbit tucked securely beneath her arm. She hadn’t stopped talking the entire afternoon—her excitement bubbling over like she didn’t want to waste a second of her time here. But now, her energy had finally given out.

You sat down on the couch, just watching her. There was something about seeing her like that, small and soft in a space that wasn’t yours, yet didn’t feel entirely foreign either… it did something strange to your chest.

Behind you, in the kitchen, James was quietly cleaning up. He’d made dinner. Offered, actually. You’d sat at his table and tried to eat even though your nerves were all over the place. It was awkward, yes—but not tense the way it had been before. There was something easier about it. Calmer. Like you both were too tired to keep up the weight of old fights, at least for today.

“You want tea or anything?” he asked now, his voice low, careful not to wake her.

You turned a little, arms crossed, unsure. “Tea’s good.” A pause. “If it’s no trouble.”

He shook his head, already reaching for the kettle.

You sat at the edge of the couch, your eyes drifting to Becca again. “She was so happy,” you said softly. “It’s like she didn’t even know where to start.”

James glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah… I noticed.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, almost under his breath, “Thank you again.“

You didn’t answer right away. You just… stayed quiet, watching the soft rise and fall of Becca’s chest, her little hand fisted around the rabbit’s ear.

The silence hung for a moment longer, thick and hushed. Then James’s voice came from behind you—low, careful.

“I’m sorry. For our last fight.”

You turned your head toward him, brows lifting slightly. Disbelief flickered across your face before you could hide it.

He met your gaze, exhaling slowly. “I should have apologized earlier but… Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am a coward.”

Your gaze softened before you could stop it.

“I didn’t mean that,” you said quietly. “You’re not a coward, James. I was angry. That wasn’t fair.”

He shook his head. “You weren’t wrong.”

Your voice was a little steadier now. “Still. I shouldn’t have said it. I… I was lashing out.”

James sat down on the arm of the couch, rubbing his hands together like he needed to do something with them. “We both were. And Becca—” his voice cracked slightly “—she shouldn’t have seen that.”

“No,” you agreed, chest tightening. “She really shouldn’t have.”

You both looked over at her then—so small, so peaceful now. You felt the weight of it all settle heavy in the quiet between you.

James shifted on the couch, voice low. “You know… it’s my birthday next week and…”

Of course you knew.

How could you not know?

Even though you never gave a fuck about birthdays—not before Becca—his was etched somewhere inside you, whether you wanted it to be or not.

You looked up at him slowly, and he was already glancing at you, hesitant.

“Well I… There’s gonna be a birthday party,” he said. “Here. I mean… Nothing big, just… my sister and… a few friends…”

You raised a brow, lips twitching. “That doesn’t sound like you,” you said, letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “I thought you liked the quiet.”

He let out a short breath of a chuckle and looked down for a moment, fingers rubbing at the seam of his jeans. “I do… It’s just… Sharon insisted.”

Right. Sharon.

He glanced at you again. “But I’d like you to come. With Becca. She could… get to know my family and… all…”

Your mouth opened slightly, then closed. The request sounded simple. Harmless, even. But it wasn’t.

Still, something in his voice gave you pause. The way he said my family, like he was hoping maybe… just maybe… you’d still fit in that frame.

“She could meet my sister,” he added, quieter now. “My niece’ll be there too. She’s just a little older than Becca. They might get along.”

You studied his face, the quiet tension around his eyes, the barely-hidden nerves.

“James, I…” you started, then trailed off, rubbing your palm over your thigh. “I’m not sure if this is a good idea.” You huffed, half-laughing at how stupid it sounded even saying it out loud. “I mean—don’t they all take me as some traitor?”

Your voice had a slight edge now, defensive before he even said a word.

He looked up sharply, eyebrows furrowed. “No. That’s not—”

You shook your head. “Come on. Your sister? Sharon? Your friends? You think they don’t take me as one? I lied to you and then ran off while being pregnant with your kid.”

“You didn’t run off,” he said firmly. “You left. Because I told you to.”

“James, please—” you snapped, then caught yourself. Becca was still sleeping right next to you. You softened your voice. “They only know what they were told.”

James exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping for a second. “And they know the truth,” he said. “Yes, you betrayed me. But they know how things are.”

Your stomach twisted. That word—betrayed—still landed like a dull blade, even now.

He looked at you again, more gently this time. “They know I wasn’t perfect as well.” A beat passed, and then, more quietly, “They know I wasn’t there for you when I should’ve been.”

You swallowed. “That still doesn’t mean they want me at your party.”

“I do.”

You blinked at him. The quiet weight of those two words made your chest ache.

“I want Becca there,” he said, “and I want you there. You’re her mother. You’re part of this. Whether anyone likes it or not.”

A long silence stretched between you.

Your fingers idly smoothed over the edge of the cushion, needing something to do, something to ground you. James was still looking at you, quiet and steady. Not pushing. Just… waiting.

“I don’t know if I belong in that part of your life,” you finally said, barely above a whisper.

His brows pulled together. “You do.”

You let out a soft laugh—dry and tired. “Do I? Because sometimes it really feels like I’m just this… memory you don’t know what to do with.”

James leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice low. “You’re not a memory.”

You didn’t answer right away. Becca shifted a little in her sleep, her tiny fingers curling tighter around the rabbit’s ear. You glanced down at her. “It’s not just about me,” you murmured. “I’m used to people not wanting me around, but I’m not dragging her into that.”

“You’re not dragging her anywhere,” he said. “And nobody’s going to make her feel unwanted.”

You looked at him again.

“I want her to know she’s part of something,” James added. “That she has people. That she’s mine, and I’m hers. And that… you and I, even if we’re not—” He stopped, jaw tightening a little. “Even if we’re not what we used to be, we still made something good.”

Your chest ached.

You whispered, “I’ll think about it.”

James nodded slowly. “That’s all I’m asking.”

———

It had been three days.

Three days of the three of you trying to soak up every minute—like time was something you could store up if you tried hard enough.

James barely let go of Becca, carrying her when she got tired of walking, lifting her up to point at buildings and birds and traffic lights like it was all magic. You showed her the city—not the one you’d once run from, but the one she could remember now with joy in her steps. The park with the street musicians. The zoo with the butterfly room that made her gasp and press her nose against the glass. The rooftop café where you sat all three together, sharing a warm pastry, Becca perched on James’s lap, powdered sugar on her chin.

She laughed. God, she laughed so much.

And you did too, sometimes.

Not the bitter, tired sound you’d gotten used to—but real laughter. Like maybe for once, the world had nothing sharp to offer.

And now… it was his birthday.

You stood in the little bathroom of your temporary apartment, hands shaking just enough to make brushing Becca’s hair a slower process than usual. The cheap plastic comb snagged in a knot, and she winced.

“Sorry,” you whispered, gently easing the tangle out. “Almost done, baby.”

She nodded, her rabbit tucked under one arm, her legs swinging off the closed toilet seat where she sat like a princess being readied for a ball. You’d found a soft, pale yellow dress for her at a shop down the street—the kind with little puffed sleeves and a satin bow at the back. It made her glow. She looked almost like the sun itself.

Your own dress was folded carefully on the bed in the next room—simple, soft fabric, clean lines, something that made you feel like yourself and not a ghost haunting someone else’s life.

Still, your heart was pounding. Your palms kept going clammy. You couldn’t stop glancing at your reflection in the mirror above the sink—fixing a strand of hair, smoothing your face like it might hide the nerves crawling under your skin.

You had never met his family or friends.

You hadn’t seen any of his people.

And tonight… you’d walk into that house as the mother of his child…who once broke his heart.

Fucking great.

Why did you agree?

You swallowed hard, fingers stilling in Becca’s hair. She looked up at you through the mirror.

“Mama?” she asked softly. “Are you okay?”

You met her eyes, your lips pressing into a trembling smile. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I’m just… a little nervous.”

“Why?”

You crouched down, eye level with her now, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Because tonight’s important,” you said. “And because I want it to go… really well.”

She blinked, then reached out and patted your cheek with her tiny hand, completely serious. “It will,” she said.

You melted. Just like that.

Your shoulders dropped, tension unwinding in a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. A watery smile tugged at your lips as you leaned in and kissed her forehead, resting your hand gently over her tiny one on your cheek.

“I love you, Beccy,” you whispered, voice catching just a little.

She beamed. That scrunched-nose kind of smile that could undo the hardest days.

“I love you too, Mama,” she said with conviction, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re the best.”

You let out a soft, teary laugh. “No, baby… I’m really not.”

“Yes, you are,” she said, swinging her feet again. “You buy me dresses. And you let me eat strawberries for dinner sometimes.”

You grinned. “Ah, so that’s the bar.”

“Mhm,” she hummed.

———

You arrived a little late.

Fashionably, maybe, though that had never been your style. Really, you’d just stood frozen after you left the cab for a few minutes longer than necessary, heart racing like a warning bell.

Becca’s tiny hand was wrapped in yours the whole time—and you hadn’t even realized how tight your grip had become until she let out a quiet—

“Ow… Mama, auch.”

Your eyes snapped down. “Shit—sorry, honey.” You crouched quickly, rubbing the spot you’d squeezed too tight and brushing her knuckles with a kiss. “I didn’t mean to. I’m just a little nervous, okay?”

She nodded, unfazed, already distracted by the lights strung up around the house. “It’s okay. It looks pretty.”

You tried to smile. “Yeah. It does.”

The front door opened before you even reached it. James. In a soft linen shirt, sleeves rolled, collar relaxed—but his shoulders still squared like he’d been pacing. And his eyes… they went soft the second they landed on you both.

“Hey,” he said quietly, stepping forward. “You made it.”

You nodded. “Of course.”

He leaned down to Becca, and she squealed a quiet “Hi, Daddy!” before throwing her arms around his legs.

James scooped her up effortlessly, pressing a kiss to her temple, and then looked to you again. “Come on. We’re outside—in the garden.”

You followed him through the house, the click of your shoes feeling too loud on the floor, your throat dry. You could hear voices ahead—easy, mingling laughter, music drifting on the warm air. You could already feel the stares even though no one had seen you yet. You weren’t ready.

God, you weren’t ready.

You stepped outside and the light changed—golden and dappled under the canopy of trees, paper lanterns swaying above a long wooden table, half-filled glasses and shared plates and soft music spilling from somewhere discreet.

And James reached for your wrist, just lightly. Not to stop you. Just to anchor you.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You swallowed hard.

No. But you nodded anyway.

Almost instantly, someone noticed you.

A woman—tall, radiant, warm-eyed—was crossing the garden with a look of unmistakable recognition, glass of wine in one hand and the other already outstretched in your direction. She was beautiful in that effortless way—a little bossy, a little overfamiliar, but all heart.

James’ sister.

You didn’t have time to brace before she reached you.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, eyes flicking between you and the little girl in James’ arms. “This is her, isn’t it? This is the little Becca? Named after me?”

She didn’t wait for a response before she stepped forward with a grin, gently ruffling Becca’s curls. “Well, aren’t you the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”

Becca blinked up at her, rabbit still in hand. “…You have the same name as me?”

“I do,” Rebecca said proudly. “Well, I had it first, but I’m very happy to share.”

Becca giggled, just a little, and your shoulders finally dropped half an inch.

“She’s even cuter than the pictures,” Rebecca added, turning to you now—eyes sharp, but not unkind. “And you. You must be absolutely terrified right now.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Meeting the everyone. All the judging eyes. The awkward small talk. Don’t worry. I’m the worst of the bunch—and I already like you.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry from relief. You managed a shaky, grateful smile instead.

“Thanks,” you murmured. “Really.”

James was still holding Becca, watching quietly—a faint grin tugging at his mouth.

Oh, he was enjoying it.

His sister clapped her hands. “Alright, party mode activated.”

Then she glanced at your daughter again, eyes sparkling. “Hey, listen. My daughter’s upstairs playing with her mountain of toys and getting glitter in places it absolutely shouldn’t be. I bet she’d love a new friend—what do you say, Becca? Want to come play for a bit?”

Beccy looked up at you, her expression shifting from uncertainty to growing interest.

Rebecca softened. “Only if it’s okay with your mom. I’ll keep an eye on them.”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around the strap of your bag. You weren’t sure what exactly you were afraid of—maybe that you’d lose her in this unfamiliar house, or maybe just the idea of letting her out of reach. But then you felt James watching you.

He put Becca down and your eyes met his. And for a second, the noise of the party faded behind you.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded, like a quiet promise saying it’s okay.

You exhaled slowly and looked back at Becca, brushing a thumb across her temple. “Yeah… fine. But only if you want to, okay?”

Becca gave a tiny, eager nod.

Rebecca grinned wide and reached for her hand. “Come on, kid. I’ve got juice boxes and chaos upstairs.”

You crouched a little, whispering in Becca’s ear as she clutched her rabbit. “Be good, Beccy. I’ll be right here.”

She nodded again and then let her aunt lead her away, small feet padding up the steps.

And just like that—you were standing in a garden party, alone.

You stood there, stiff, trying to ground yourself in the warm air and the distant hum of laughter. But the minute Becca disappeared up the stairs, it was like your body forgot how to function.

This was stupid.

You shouldn’t have come. Not here, not to this house, not to this party. You were surrounded by his world, and even though no one was looking at you funny—yet—you felt the weight of it on your skin, like it could peel you open.

The cutlery clinking, the soft jazz in the background, the smell of grilled meat and champagne—none of it matched the twist in your gut.

You were about to take a quiet step back—find a corner and sit until the room stopped spinning—when you heard his voice again.

“It’s okay.”

You turned your head. James stood beside you, not too close, but close enough that you could hear the calm in his voice. See the way his hand hovered like he almost wanted to reach for yours but didn’t.

“Come on,” he said gently. “There’s some people I want you to meet.”

You blinked. “James—”

“I promise. It’s gonna be fine.”

And before you could come up with an excuse, he was already walking you through the garden.

Two men stood near the drink table, laughing about something. One of them—blond hair, broad-shouldered, blue eyes. The other, with a disarming grin and sharp gaze that almost cut through you.

James motioned toward them. “Guys, this is—”

“Oh, I know who she is,” Sam interrupted with a surprised smile.

Steve looked over with an unreadable expression, but when his eyes landed on you, they softened… just a bit.

You tried to smile, but it faltered before it reached your eyes. “Hi.”

As they chatted, friendly and casual, you felt the walls close in. You weren’t just standing here with James’s friends—you were standing in a room full of people who had to know what you did.

They probably whispered about you behind closed doors. Judged you silently in their own way. You could almost hear the unspoken questions:

Can she be trusted?

Will she hurt James again?

Is she spying on us right now?

You swallowed hard. The laughter around you felt distant and hollow, like a soundtrack to a scene you didn’t belong in.

How could you face them? How could you face anyone when you were carrying so much guilt, so much shame? When every glance felt like it pierced through your carefully built walls?

James’s voice broke through the storm inside your head, but you hardly heard it.

Because all you could feel was the heavy weight of the past—how everyone here must see you as the woman who betrayed the man you still loved.

James continues talking beside you—something light, probably teasing—but you just nodded along, gaze unfocused. It all felt like static. Laughter. Music. The occasional cheer from the kids playing upstairs that you could hear through the open window. Voices that blurred together.

And then—

A hand on James’s arm.

You blinked back into yourself.

A woman you’d never seen before was suddenly by his side. Tall, blonde, stunning in a way that made you feel like you’d been punched in the gut. Her dress clung to her like it was made for her alone. She didn’t look at you right away. She just leaned in and kissed James on the cheek like she’d done it a thousand times before.

You didn’t mean to grimace—but it happened. Reflex. It was subtle, but sharp. Your jaw clenched, stomach flipping, a cold rush settling beneath your ribs.

So that was her.

Sharon.

Of course it was. You just… never thought you’d see the moment play out in front of you. Never thought it would hit this hard.

Then her eyes flicked to you. She didn’t smile.

“Hi,” she said, curt and tight. Her gaze dipped quickly to your dress, then back to your face. “You must be… her.”

Her.

You gave a small nod, trying to find your footing, your voice. “Yeah. I’m—��

“I know who you are,” she cut in, already glancing away. Not cruel. Just… uninterested. Awkward. Cold.

An empty silence followed. You weren’t sure if you were meant to say something else, or if she was. But she didn’t make an effort. Didn’t try to break the tension.

Eventually, Sharon looked back to James. “I’m gonna check on the drinks,” she muttered, already stepping away before either of you could respond.

You stood still, the weight of it all settling again. The air sharp around you. Like you’d stepped into a life that kept going without you—and maybe never wanted you back.

Your stomach turned, the air suddenly too warm, too tight against your skin.

It wasn’t about Sharon. Not really. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was all about her—about watching her kiss James’s cheek like she belonged there. About the way she said you must be her like your name was too much to acknowledge. Like you were a chapter better left unread.

You stared past the garden lights, past the gentle hum of chatter and music, and all you could hear was your own breath. Quick. Shallow. Your thoughts spiraled fast—too fast to hold onto just one.

Of course they all hate you. Of course they think you don’t belong here. You don’t. You lied. You left. And now you’re back—like you get to want anything. Like you get to hope.

“Hey,” James said, voice low as he stepped beside you. You hadn’t noticed him watching you. “She’s… not usually like that.”

You let out a bitter laugh before you could stop it. It caught in your throat like smoke.

“Sure she isn’t,” you murmured, eyes still fixed on nothing. “Just a coincidence she’s rude tonight.”

He winced. You could feel the tension ripple off him—like he wanted to fix it but didn’t know where to begin.

You didn’t continue.

You could—God, you wanted to. Part of you was itching to snap, to demand clarity, to say something just cutting enough to sting but not enough to start a war.

But the other part? The tired part? The one who held herself together with fraying thread in his garden? That part knew exactly how it would end. A fight. An echo of every old argument—the ones that had left you shaking and hollow.

So instead, you just nodded, your jaw tight, and shifted your eyes back toward the crowd.

Except you couldn’t help it. Your gaze drifted, almost on instinct. Muscle memory from another life. And there she was—Sharon.

You watched her the way you used to watch high-value targets.

She wasn’t mingling like the others. Not laughing, not sipping a drink, not even standing anywhere close to James. She was… focused. Brows slightly drawn, posture alert but not tense. You followed her line of sight but she wasn’t looking at you. Not anymore. Her eyes flicked to the side—toward the house maybe. Or someone.

Still, she was distant. Not just with you, but everyone. It wasn’t just discomfort—it was like she was only half there. Preoccupied.

You forced yourself to look away before it became obvious. Before someone noticed.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just awkwardness. Just the presence of an ex in a place where no one expected you.

But something itched beneath your skin. You told yourself it was harmless. A habit. Like breathing. But the truth was, it was deeper than that—burned into your brain from years of survival and secrecy. Once, it kept you alive. Now it was just… instinct. Muscle memory that work in FBI imprinted on you.

Your detective brain switched on before you could stop it.

The way Sharon kept scanning the area—it wasn’t casual. It was practiced. Her eyes swept the crowd like she was searching for someone. Not in a friendly “Where’s my friend?” kind of way either. This was tactical. Quietly thorough. Efficient. A pattern. She checked the back entrance, the patio door, the hallway leading inside.

You glanced at her hands.

Phone in one, fingers moving quickly over the screen. Her expression didn’t change. Whatever she was typing, it was short, decisive. Not a social message. Not small talk. This was something else.

She sent it. Waited. Glanced around again.

God. You hated this. You hated how it all came back so easily. How you could still read body language like a briefing photo. How you were already forming theories—subconscious little spirals that made your chest feel tight.

You dug your nails into your palm, grounding yourself.

This isn’t a mission. This isn’t a case. You are just at a party. A birthday party. For your daughter’s father.

But you still couldn’t stop watching her.

You inhaled slowly, trying to shake it off.

It is probably just jealousy. That’s all it is.

You repeated it like a mantra.

You saw her kiss James. You were emotional. On edge. You didn’t belong here and you knew it, so your mind was looking for reasons to confirm it.

But it didn’t help.

It didn’t help that your gut wouldn’t shut up.

You clenched your jaw and turned your gaze away. Tried to focus on the faint sound of kids laughing somewhere upstairs. Tried to remind yourself that Becca was safe, that this was just a normal party, that people like Sharon had no reason to be doing anything sketchy at James’ birthday.

She was probably uncomfortable because you were here. That made sense. You were the ex. The one who ran. The one with all the secrets.

And maybe—maybe she was texting someone about you. Complaining. Warning someone. Something petty.

Not everything is a threat. Not everyone is hiding something. Not everyone is you.

You didn’t feel easy. Or light. Or anything remotely comfortable.

Honestly, you would’ve given anything to just go home.

Curl up in bed, wrap your arms around your daughter, and pretend you were somewhere far away. Somewhere the past couldn’t follow you. Somewhere James didn’t look at you the way he did—soft, careful, like he still didn’t know what to do with you.

The party moved like a slow tide around you—people mingling under strings of golden lights, soft jazz floating from the speakers tucked in the corners of the garden. You stood with James near the far edge of the lawn, close to the ivy-covered fence, just far enough from the crowd that no one was listening in. Your drink had long gone warm in your hand.

You glanced around again. Sharon was gone now, probably inside somewhere. People kept giving you looks—curious, polite, none of them exactly hostile. But it didn’t matter. You felt like every pair of eyes was dissecting you. Wondering what you were doing there.

James must have noticed your silence, because he leaned in, nudging you gently with his shoulder. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth. Didn’t answer. Just nodded once, too tight.

Then—

Crack.

It sounded like fireworks at first. Or maybe someone dropping something heavy. Barely anyone reacted. Some people laughed, raised glasses.

You blinked. James turned his head slightly.

Another crack. Louder. Sharper.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Screams.

Suddenly the music cut. A woman shrieked, plates crashed to the ground, and people scattered like frightened birds.

Gunshots.

Real ones.

“Down—get down!” someone shouted.

James grabbed your arm hard enough to bruise, dragging you behind a stone planter as the air exploded with panic.

“Becca.” you gasped, voice already hoarse with fear.

James looked to the house—but it felt miles away now. The garden was too open. Too exposed. And the shooters weren’t waiting. Bullets tore through the air—one splintered the wooden trellis just a few feet away, making you both duck lower.

He cursed under his breath, eyes darting toward the house, then to the patio where Steve and Sam had just shoved a couple of guests through the door.

“Steve!” James yelled. “Secure the house! Get the kids!”

Steve looked back just long enough to nod and disappear inside, already yelling orders.

James turned to you. “We can’t make a run for it right now. We’d be exposed. Just—stay low, stay with me—”

But your chest was tightening. All you could think about was Becca upstairs.

Becca, with some little girl you didn’t know.

Becca, in a house that suddenly felt too far away.

Your breath caught. The air felt thinner now—sharper, like it sliced your lungs instead of filling them.

Where is Sharon?

She’d been standing just a few feet from the patio minutes ago. You’d seen her then—narrow-eyed, checking her phone, barely even pretending to make small talk. You’d watched her look around like she was waiting for someone to show up.

And now?

Gone.

Just gone.

Your brain started spinning without permission. All those instincts you tried to leave behind—every pattern recognition, every quiet training cue buried under years of denial—flooded to the surface.

Something was off. This wasn’t random. It wasn’t messy. Whoever came in… they weren’t just shooting blindly. They knew the house. The layout. Where people would be standing. The way the gunfire curved around the garden like it was designed to herd people—not just scare them.

No one could plan this without inside information.

You felt it in your chest, a cold certainty.

It was her.

It had to be her.

James was crouched beside you, eyes scanning the perimeter, hyper-alert. His hand brushed your back without even realizing it—protective, grounding. But you didn’t dare grab his arm. Didn’t dare say what your gut screamed at you, because—

Because Becca was inside.

Because all that mattered was getting her out.

Alive.

The crack of gunfire didn’t stop. It echoed sharp and vicious through the garden, like it was bouncing off the very air. James had already moved—fast and precise, firing from cover, eyes narrowed in complete focus.

You stayed low behind the stone planter, heart hammering against your ribs, every instinct in you screaming to do something. But James had told you to stay put. Stay down.

You couldn’t.

Not like this.

There was too much blood already. Some people—maybe guests, maybe some of James’ people—lying motionless on the grass, some screaming in pain, others too quiet. Your stomach twisted.

And then you saw it.

Just a few feet away—one of the attackers down, slumped awkwardly near a tree. Their body still, twisted. A handgun glinted beside their open palm.

Your breath caught. You didn’t think. You moved.

Hands shaking, you slid out from behind the planter just enough to crawl across the grass, staying low, barely breathing. You kept your eyes on the body, the gun—ignoring the way the earth was stained red, ignoring the warm slickness that clung to your hands as you reached out.

Your fingers wrapped around the weapon.

You pulled back quickly, retreating to the planter just as another round of shots cracked through the air. You hugged the gun to your chest for a moment, your pulse thundering in your ears, trying to breathe.

You weren’t the same person you used to be.

You hadn’t held a gun in years. Not since you stopped working with the Feds.

But right now…

You didn’t have a choice.

So you didn’t hesitate. Gun in hand, you slipped out from behind the planter again, eyes sharp, heart hammering not just with fear but with adrenaline—the familiar rush that always came with danger.

James was just a few feet away, firing with brutal efficiency. He didn’t say a word when he saw you moving toward the attackers. No warning, no protest. He knew. He knew you could handle yourself, that you were still capable.

You’re both fighting for the same thing.

The house. Becca. Her safety.

You crouched behind a low wall, sighting down the gun carefully, steadying your breath like you’d been trained. Your fingers moved with practiced precision—shoot, reload, shoot again. Shots rang out sharp and echoed, but you barely registered the noise beyond the tunnel vision of protecting what mattered.

James moved with you, a silent partner in the chaos—always just a step away, covering your flank, eyes flicking constantly to the house where Becca was hidden.

You didn’t say much. Words didn’t fit here.

You were two soldiers in a warzone, fighting back the dark that had come for your family.

And you were ready to do whatever it took.

Sam’s voice crackled through the chaos—somewhere near the house— sharp and clear. “Support’s en route. Hold tight.”

You felt the weight of those words settle over you like a shield. Reinforcements. More of James’s people—stronger, faster, better prepared—were coming.

The tide was turning.

James’s eyes met yours briefly, a flicker of relief there despite the grime and sweat on his face. You gave a tight nod, still focused but grateful.

You ducked behind cover again as more figures appeared on the perimeter, moving in synchronized, tactical precision.

The attackers, realizing the odds were shifting, started to falter—some trying to retreat, others desperately pushing forward but losing ground.

Your gun went off again, then another. The sound was relentless but less terrifying now.

The firefight began to wane. The chaos thinned like fog lifting at dawn.

You kept your breath steady, eyes scanning the area.

One by one, the attackers fell back or went down, their numbers dwindling to nearly nothing.

James moved beside you, his expression tense but resolute. “There’s only a couple left,” he muttered, loading his weapon.

You nodded, heart still pounding but steadying. You exhaled slowly, every muscle still tight from the fight, but alive.

One of James’ men finally called out, voice loud and steady. “It’s clear.”

Carefully, you rose to your feet, the weight of adrenaline fading, replaced by raw exhaustion.

James was instantly at your side, his hands searching you for any sign of injury. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, fear still in your eyes. “I’m fine.”

His eyes were intense, almost frantic now, and without hesitation he turned to Sam, voice trembling, eyes almost glassy.

“Becca… is she okay? Did they get into the house?”

Sam’s expression was calm but firm. “They’re safe. Your sister, her kid, and Becca—they’re all safe inside with Steve.”

James let out a breath he’d been holding, relief washing over his face in waves. You both stood there for a moment, the world quiet except for your pounding hearts.

The world seemed to freeze for a heartbeat.

You glanced around, heart hammering in your chest—the blood-slick ground, the shattered remnants of what had been a peaceful night now turned into chaos and death.

And then you saw it.

One of the attackers, barely conscious but still clinging to life, lay sprawled on the ground not far from you.

In their trembling hand was a gun, aimed directly at James.

Panic ripped through you. Without thinking, you lunged toward James, moving faster than you knew you could, instinctively shielding him.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Crack.

The world narrowed down to the sound of that single gunshot—sharp, unforgiving, like a thunderclap ripping through the chaos.

The impact hit you first—a searing, burning pain blossoming through your rib, fierce and immediate. Your breath hitched, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat as you crumpled forward, body collapsing onto James, fighting to keep him safe.

Sam’s shot rang out, precise and final, cutting through the chaos like a sharp blade. The last threat was silenced, the attacker finally still.

Everything else faded into a blur—the red-hot agony, the pounding in your chest, the taste of iron at the back of your throat.

Your mind screamed but your body stayed rooted, trembling as you clung to him.

James’ voice—raw, frantic—cut through the haze. “No! No, no, no—”

You felt his hands on you, warm as you once remembered them, shaking you gently, like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Please—“

But all you could think was how much you loved him.

How much you’d give to keep him safe.

Your world had shattered—but the one thing you knew with terrifying clarity was that you would never let him fall.

James dropped to his knees with you, eyes wide with horror, his whole body trembling. His hands were gentle but frantic as they moved to cradle you, as if holding you close could somehow protect you from the searing pain.

“Stay with me, please,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Please, my love…”

His breath hitched as he searched your face, desperate for any sign, any flicker of hope.

Without hesitation, he gathered you into his arms, lifting you as if you were the most precious thing in the world—because you were. His hands trembled, urgency flooding his movements. “We need to get you help. Now. Just—Please, stay with me.”

His hands shook, fingers trembling “Stay with me,” he repeated, voice breaking. “Please, stay with me.”

You tried to answer, to tell him it would be okay, to say you loved him one last time—but the pain pressed down on your chest like a weight too heavy to bear. Your breath caught and faltered, the words choking in your throat, slipping away before they could reach his ears.

“Please—Please, you can’t—“ he cried out.

“It’s her—” you managed to let out, your voice barely a whisper.

“What?” James asked, confused through the haze of his emotions. His eyes were full of both ache and sorrow.

Your own eyes fluttered, a tear tracing a slow, silent path down your cheek. Your body felt numb, weak, disconnected from your mind. The darkness was coming fast now, pulling at you with cold hands.

You could feel life slipping away, like sand through trembling fingers, and with it, every chance, every hope you’d ever held onto.

There was a coldness creeping in from the edges of your vision, a soft pulling that whispered this was the end—the last breath, the final goodbye. But your mind refused to accept it, clinging to fragments of warmth: Becca’s bright smile, the sound of her laughter, James’s voice calling your name.

You thought about all the things left unsaid—the apologies, the hopes, the dreams you never got to chase. How unfair it was, that you would never get to watch your daughter grow up fully, or hold James without the weight of pain between you.

And yet, beneath the fear, there was something fierce—a quiet resolve not to vanish without love, without meaning.

Your fingers touched his shirt, the faintest touch, and your lips parted as if to say something. “I— love you—“ you tried to whisper, voice barely audible, but the words were your last gift—a fragile promise carried on a breath.

As the darkness closed in, you surrendered to the fading light, carried by the love of the man who had always held your heart—the love of your life—and the memories of all you fought for.

Chapter Ten (Finale) Soon… 💸

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