laser focused

Her face lit up like a switch had flipped.

She cooed, loud and delighted, tiny fingers curling into the fabric of Sam’s shirt. He laughed, a surprised, warm sound, and she answered with another happy noise, kicking her legs like she’d just discovered her favorite person.

“Oh,” Sam breathed, stunned. “Hey there.”

Alpine stiffened.

Her ears flattened. Her body went taut.

Sam noticed immediately. “I see you, Al” he said quietly, not moving, eyes flicking up to the cat. “I’m being good.”

The baby reached up then, chubby hand stretching toward Sam’s face. She brushed his cheek, fascinated, and let out a soft, pleased sound as she settled more fully against him.

Something shifted, then.

Alpine’s ears lifted, not fully relaxed, but forward now. Her tail stopped lashing and loosened into a slow, thoughtful sway. She didn’t move closer, didn’t soften completely, but she didn’t hiss either.

Bucky noticed, eyebrows raising in surprise. 

Sam swallowed, voice dropping. “Yeah, okay,” he said softly, as he looked down at the baby. “I get it, Alpine.”

The baby smiled.

“I’d fight a god for her.”

Bucky let out a quiet breath, something like a laugh, something like relief. He clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder, eyes still on Alpine. “Don’t get cocky,” he said. “From Alpine? That’s probation.”

Sam huffed a soft chuckle. “I’ll take it.”

Alpine blinked once slowly from her perch. It wasn’t approval, but dignified acknowledgment.

After a moment, she turned her head away, deliberately, like she’d decided Sam was no longer an immediate threat.

You felt your chest warm at the sight, but couldn’t resist one small jab. “Aww, see, Sam? She might even let you pet her one day,” you smiled.

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. At the very least that’s her saying you can stay.”

Sam smiled down at the baby, rocking gently as she babbled happily, entirely unaware she’d just negotiated a truce on his behalf.

“Guess I’m honored,” he said quietly.

From the couch, Alpine flicked her tail once more, measured and restrained.

Probation, indeed.

Next: Alpine Vets Yelena (pt. 1)

The black compression shirt he’s wearing stretches tight across his chest and shoulders, the kind of bulk that says he’s spent the last thirty days punishing himself in the gym instead of texting you. 

You hate how your brain immediately supplies: He’s been working out to forget me. Or getting ready for someone else. The thought stings more than the January air.

And now you have to force your eyes back to his face while his blue eyes flick over you once, quick, then linger.

“Hey,” he says, voice softer than you remember.

“Hey.” You manage a smile that feels brittle. “Happy New Year.”

“Yeah. You too.” He steps back, holding the door wider. “Come in. It’s freezing out there.”

You stay planted on the threshold.

“It’s fine,” you say with your best casual voice. “I’ll wait here.”

Bucky’s brows pull together for half a second. He wets his lips and tilts his head—and lets out a quiet, almost sheepish breath.

“Oh. Uh…” He glances over his shoulder at the box, then back at you. “I was thinking… maybe you’d wanna come in and look around? Just in case I missed something.”

His tone is careful, like he’s testing thin ice.

“Sure, whatever. I can do that.” 

You take off your scarf, and hang it on the coathanger as he closes the door behind you with a quiet click.

He clears his throat, hands shoving into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I, uh… got everything together. Put it in a box. Figured that’d be easier.”

You stand there in the living room, the familiar scent of his cologne in the air. Your fingers linger on the edge of the box as you peer inside—everything folded with that precise, military neatness he always had. Your favorite mug is wrapped carefully in newspaper. Your toothbrush in its little travel case. The books you’d left on the nightstand, spines aligned perfectly.

Behind you, his voice is low, careful. “I put the stuff I bought for you in there too. Intimates, jewelry—all of it. It’s yours. Do whatever you want with it… throw it out, sell it, burn it, your choice.”

The words hit like a slap you didn’t see coming. You swallow hard, throat raw. “I thought you already did.”

A long, heavy silence. Then the scrape of his hand over his face, a sound so tired it makes your chest ache.

“You know I didn’t mean that,” he says, voice cracking on the last word.

You shrug, gripping the box flap until the cardboard bites into your fingers. “Didn’t sound like it at the time.”

Another beat of silence—thick, suffocating.

“You said you were leaving,” he says, quieter now, closer. “You said you were done with me. And then you were gone. I sat in this apartment for weeks staring at your side of the bed like a fucking idiot, waiting for a text that never came. I was angry. I was hurt. So yeah—I said shit to hurt you back. And I’ve hated myself for it every single day since.”

Your eyes burn. You’ve pictured him moving on a thousand times—new girl, new life, your stuff in the trash without a second thought. Hearing he didn’t… hearing he’s been suffering too… it doesn’t fix anything. It just makes the ache sharper.

He keeps going, voice barely above a whisper. “I saw your posts. You looked… happy. Smiling in every photo. And I kept thinking—good. Good, she’s better off. She’s free of me. Because I know what I am. I know I’m difficult. I know I shut down when the work gets bad. I know I’m not easy to love.” A ragged breath. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to walk on eggshells. I’m sorry I ever made you feel small. I just… I miss you so much it’s hard to breathe sometimes. And it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Your vision blurs. You turn to face him slowly.

He’s standing a few feet away, shoulders curled inward like he’s bracing for a blow, eyes red-rimmed, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. His hand is still half-raised from scrubbing over his face, like he forgot what to do with it.

The words hang between you, ugly and honest. You want to scream at him. You want to hit him. You want to disappear.

Instead you whisper, “It doesn’t matter now.”

You bend, haul the box up—heavier than your heart—and head for the door.

“Oh come on.” His voice cracks fully this time. Footsteps quick and panicked. “I’m trying here. I’m sorry. I mean it.”

Heavy footsteps follow you to the door.

“I didn’t ask you to come get your clothes today because I wanted you gone,” he says, raw. “I asked because it was an excuse to see you again. One more time. Even if it hurt.”

You’re almost at the entryway when he steps in front of you, blocking the narrow hall. 

Gently, firmly, he lifts the box from your arms and sets it down.

His hands settle on your shoulders, trembling.

His eyes are glassy and pleading. “If you’re really done… if you don’t love me anymore… say it. Say it to my face, and I’ll let you walk out that door and I’ll never bother you again. I swear.”

You stare up at him. Those blue eyes—stormy, wrecked, more open than you’ve ever seen them. A month of distance collapses into this single moment, and it hurts so much you can barely breathe.

A broken laugh escapes you. “You’re cruel,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You know I can’t.”

Tears spill hot down your cheeks. You try to turn away, but his hand cups your face, thumb brushing the tears like he’s afraid you’ll shatter.

“Look at me,” he whispers again, closer now, forehead almost touching yours. “Tell me you’re done. Tell me you don’t love me. And I’ll let you go. Even if it fucking kills me.”

You crumble.

“How can I—” The words rip out of you, raw and ragged. “I love you. God, Bucky, I love you, you’re so—”

His lips crash onto yours like he’s been starving for this—for you—in the last thirty days. His tongue sliding against yours, claiming every inch of your mouth like he’s trying to erase the distance, the fight, the silence. 

His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears tracking down your cheeks, but he doesn’t gentle the kiss—if anything, he deepens it, stealing the air from your lungs until your head spins harder and black spots dance at the edges of your vision.

You melt into him, helpless. Your hands fist in the front of his compression shirt, pulling him closer even as your knees threaten to buckle. 

A soft, desperate sound escapes your throat and he swallows it, pressing you back until your shoulders meet the nearby wall.

A low sound rumbles in his throat as the contact ignites—chest to chest, hips to hips—and you feel the shudder that rolls through him.

One of his thighs slides between yours, pinning you there, and the solid weight of him is overwhelming—broad chest, corded arms, the new muscle he’s built like armor against the world without you. 

His hands leave your face, skating down your neck, over your coat, until he’s gripping your waist and lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his hips on instinct, the box forgotten on the floor.

He murmurs something wordless against your lips before he nips gently at your bottom one, teasing, testing. The bite is soft, then sharper, a sweet sting that he immediately soothes with a slow, languid kiss. Again and again—bite, kiss, savor—until your lips are swollen and tingling and you’re arching into him without meaning to.

You open for him without hesitation, and his tongue slips inside again, tangling with yours in a slow, sensual dance until you’re breathless.

It emboldens him; you feel it in the way his grip tightens.

He tenses, every muscle coiling as he presses forward, the kiss turning firmer, more insistent. His mouth moves over yours—angling, retreating, claiming, wringing pleasure from you in gasps you can’t hold back.

His body hardens against yours, arousal throbbing hot and demanding between your legs. Another low moan escapes him as he rocks subtly into you, the friction sending white-hot sparks racing up your spine.

The need builds too fast, too fierce, until you both rip apart at the same moment—lips parting with a suction that echoes in the charged silence. You're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked in a haze of raw want.

"Can we..." you gasp, voice husky, barely recognizable, "do this somewhere more comfortable?"

A rough chuckle rumbles from his chest, vibrating against you. "God, yes."

He doesn't let go. His mouth crashes back to yours in a searing kiss, hungry and laughing all at once, as his hands start working. 

Fingers tug at your coat, shoving it off your shoulders; it hits the floor with a soft thud. You stumble backward together, lips barely separating, toward the couch, his hands peeling away layers like he's unwrapping a late christmas present. Your jeans go next—his vibranium fingers cool and precise on the button, flesh hand dragging the denim down your thighs until you kick them free.

By the time you tumble onto the couch, you're straddling him, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. Your shirt clings to you, the only barrier left, and his sweatpants do nothing to hide the thick, rigid length of him pressing up against your core.

His tongue tangles with yours again, deep and possessive, as the fingers of his right hand trail up the side of your body—mapping every curve. He stops at the swell of your breast, palm cupping it gently, feeling the weight in his hand. A low, guttural groan vibrates against your mouth, and you feel him swell even harder beneath you, his cock straining against the fabric separating you.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice wrecked, before slipping his hand under your shirt and bra. 

Warm flesh meets bare skin as he cups you fully, squeezing with just the right pressure—caressing, kneading—until another groan tears from him, deeper this time, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

His thumb circles your nipple, slow and teasing, and the spark of pleasure shoots straight through you. You gasp into his mouth, arching hard against him, the sudden sting of it making your thighs clench around his.

With a rough tug, he pushes your shirt and bra up, exposing your breast to the cool air—your nipple tight and aching, begging. His eyes darken, devouring the sight.

“Fuck. You are so beautiful—you missed me didn’t you?” he whispers, before lowering his head. His lips brush the sensitive peak in a soft kiss, tongue flicking out to taste you, savoring like you're the sweetest thing he's ever had.

The wet heat of his mouth closes over you fully then—tongue swirling languidly around your nipple, sucking softly, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out. Pleasure floods you in waves, intense and overwhelming, pooling hot and liquid between your legs. 

Every brush of his lips, every pull of his mouth, every gentle scrape of teeth—it's torture, exquisite and unrelenting, building that tight coil inside you until you're trembling, on the edge already from this alone.

His free hand—the vibranium one—slides to your ass, gripping firmly, urging you to move. You grind down on him instinctively, rolling your hips against the hard ridge of his trapped cock. The friction is maddening, and his fingers slip lower behind, stroking you through the thin, soaked fabric of your underwear—teasing your clit in firm circles that match the rhythm of his mouth on your breast.

You moan louder, head falling on the crook of his neck, as he tilts his head to take you deeper—sucking harder, tongue lashing your nipple until it's swollen and throbbing. The dual assault—his mouth devouring your breast, his fingers working you relentlessly while you grind on his thick length—has you shattering toward release, every nerve alight, body slick and desperate for more of him.

Your hips buck harder, desperate and shameless, chasing the pressure of his thigh and of his cock straining against the soft fabric of his sweatpants. Every roll drags the seam over your aching clit, amplified by the circles of his vibranium fingers—cool metal warmed by your heat, slick with how drenched you are.

Bucky pulls off your breast with a wet pop, lips shiny, eyes dark and feral as he watches you unravel. His breath fans hot over the sensitive, swollen peak he just abandoned.

“You gonna come?” he rasps, voice low and wrecked, thumb pressing firmer against your clit in a ruthless rhythm that matches the grind of your hips. “Come on me, baby. Let me feel you soak through everything. I want it fucking dripping down my thigh.”

The words hit like a spark to gasoline. Your body locks up—back arching, nails digging into his shoulders—as the orgasm slams into you, sharp and blinding. A broken cry tears from your throat, hips jerking helplessly against him while you pulse and clench around nothing. 

He doesn’t let up, fingers working you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling, oversensitive, gasping his name.

“Yeah, baby—say my name just like that,” Bucky groans, voice thick and ragged as your cries echo his name again and again through the aftershocks. His vibranium hand slides up your thigh, fingers tracing the slick mess you’ve made. He glances down, eyes darkening at the dark wet patch spreading across his gray sweatpants. “Fuck, look at my pants. Jesus Christ, you soaked right through ‘em.”

He lets out a low, wrecked laugh, forehead pressed to yours for a beat before he pulls back just enough to growl, “Let me just—”

He reaches behind his head and yanks the compression shirt off, tossing it aimlessly. His hair falls messier across his forehead, chest rising and falling hard, every new ridge of muscle on display from the last month of brutal workouts. You’re already helping him, hands greedy at the waistband of his sweatpants, shoving them down caught in the frenzy until they pool at his ankles. He steps out of them, kicking them aside.

You drop lower, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck, across the broad plane of his chest, tongue flicking over a nipple just to hear him hiss. Then lower, over the cut lines of his abs, tasting salt and warm skin. Your tongue darts out again, tracing the between the V that disappears below, and he drags a hand over his face with a muffled, “God, you’re so fucking sexy doing it like that.”

He looks back down, blue eyes blown wide and hungry.

You chuckle low, the sound vibrating against his skin as your hand slips under the last scrap of fabric—his boxers—palming the heavy length of him. He tenses, abs flexing under your lips, a sharp inhale whistling through his teeth. You tug the waistband down slow enough to tease, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, curving up toward his stomach with a bead of precum already glistening at the tip.

You lean in, lips parting, and take just the head into your mouth—slow, luxuriant, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge. 

He twitches hard against your tongue, a guttural “Ohh baby—” ripping out of him as his hips jerk forward involuntarily. You feel him swell even fuller in the wet heat of your mouth, hardening impossibly in seconds like his body’s been waiting a month for this exact moment.

You work lower, taking more of his shaft inch by inch until your lips meet your fingers wrapped around the base, then slide back up, hollowing your cheeks, tongue lavishing the head again with greedy circles. You pull off just long enough to look up at him through your lashes, lips shiny and swollen, a wicked little smile curving your mouth.

The look on his face—brows pinched tight, jaw clenched like he’s in pain, eyes dark and desperate—tells you everything. It’s definitely been a while.

Your free hand cups his balls, heavy and drawn up tight, rolling them gently, tugging just enough to make him throw his head back with a broken curse, vibranium fingers tangling in your hair.

“Shit—I’m so sensitive,” he rasps, voice cracking, looking down again with that wild, pleading edge. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

You pull off him with a lewd, wet pop. His cock—glistening thick and slick from your mouth—bobs heavily in front of your face, flushed dark and veined, a string of saliva still connecting your bottom lip to the swollen tip.

You let out a low, throaty giggle, eyes locked on his as you tilt your head and stick your tongue out flat. Then you guide his length with your hand, slapping the heavy weight of it against your tongue once, twice, three times—hard enough to make wet, filthy smacks, precum and spit smearing across your taste buds and chin in shiny streaks.

Bucky’s breath punches out of him in a shocked laugh as he stares down at the sight, vibranium fingers tightening in your hair.

“Holy shit,” he rasps, voice wrecked and incredulous, a dazed grin pulling at his mouth. “You dirty fucking girl.”

You hum, pleased and wicked, letting the head rest heavy on your outstretched tongue again, giving it a slow, lick from base to tip while you look up at him through wet lashes.

His thighs flex hard, abs clenching, and a low, desperate groan rumbles out of his chest.

“Baby,” he warns, hips shifting forward just an inch—like he’s already fighting not to thrust. “You keep playing like that and I’m not gonna last.”

You pull back just enough, lips brushing the sensitive underside as you murmur, voice husky and teasing, “Good. You can come in my mouth.”

The words hit him like a punch—his eyes flare wide, dark blue gone almost black, a ragged “Fuck—” punching out of him as his cock jerks hard against your lips. You don’t wait for more; you sink down again, taking him deep in one smooth glide until he hits the back of your throat. Your hand works the base in tight, twisting strokes while the other keeps teasing his balls, rolling them gently, feeling how tight and full they are.

He’s unraveling fast—head falling back, throat working on a swallow, a string of broken curses spilling out as his hips start to rock in shallow thrusts he can’t quite control.

“God, your mouth—feels so fucking good,” he pants, looking down again with that pinched, wrecked expression, like pleasure’s bordering on pain. “Not gonna… fuck, baby, I’m close—”

You hear the warning in his voice, feel it in the way his cock throbs heavier against your tongue, but it only spurs you on. 

You double down—suction tightening, cheeks hollowing as you bob faster, hand twisting in that perfect corkscrew motion guys swear by, the one that strokes him root to tip in sync with your mouth. Your tongue presses flat against the sensitive frenulum on every upstroke, flicking quick, while your other hand never stops its worship of his balls—rolling them gently, then tugging downward just enough to heighten the pull.

You pull off for a breath, dropping lower to take one ball into your mouth, sucking soft but firm, tongue swirling as your fist pumps his slick shaft in twisting pulls. 

His thighs quake harder, a strangled “Fuck—yes—” ripping out as you switch back to his cock, taking him deep again, throat relaxing to swallow around the head while your fingers keep that gentle downward tension on his balls.

His hips stutter, vibranium hand leaving your hair to grip the edge of the couch—his whole body goes rigid, abs clenching visibly as the orgasm barrels through him.

“Shit, I’m gonna come—I’m coming, I’m coming—” he chokes out, and then he’s pulsing hard against your tongue, thick ropes of cum flooding your mouth in hot, heavy spurts. You swallow greedily, milking him with your lips and hand, drawing it out until he’s shuddering violently, a low, broken groan dragging from his chest.

When it finally ebbs, he slumps against the couch, chest heaving, cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound. You sit back on your heels, licking the corner of your mouth, watching him come down with a satisfied little smile.

Bucky drags a shaky hand through his messy hair, letting out a breathless, incredulous laugh—the classic post-nut clarity hitting hard, loose and dazed.

“Where the fuck did you learn that?” he pants, voice hoarse, blue eyes wide and still a little glazed as he stares down at you. Another huff of laughter escapes him, fond and wrecked. “Jesus, baby. You trying to ruin me for good?”

He reaches down, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip, smearing the gloss there like he can’t help himself.

You lick your lips slowly, tasting him still, and meet his glazed eyes with a soft, teasing smile.

“Just my way of saying sorry to you. . .” you murmur, voice husky from everything you just did to him.

Bucky’s breathless laugh turns darker and hungrier. He sinks fully onto the couch now, legs spread, chest still heaving as he reaches for you with both hands, pulling you up from your knees.

“Come here,” he says, low and rough, patting his thigh. “Sit on me. I’m not done with you yet.”

His cock rests heavy against his stomach, semi-soft and glistening from your mouth, twitching faintly like it’s already eager for round two. You don’t hesitate—clothes half-shed, you strip off what’s left.

You know exactly what he loves, what gets him hard again. 

Lowering yourself slowly, you drag your bare, soaked pussy along his length—just slick skin on skin. The head of his cock nudges your clit on the first pass, and you both groan at the contact. You rock forward again, grinding slow and languid, coating him in your wetness, feeling him thicken and harden beneath you with every slide.

Bucky’s head falls back against the couch for a second, eyes hooded, before he snaps his gaze down to watch—transfixed by the sight of your folds parting around his shaft, gliding up and down, your arousal making everything shiny and messy.

“Oh my God,” he hisses through clenched teeth, hips lifting just slightly to chase the friction. “That’s it… just like that.”

You guide his hands up to your breasts, pressing them into his palms, and he doesn’t need more invitation. His flesh hand cups one, thumb circling the nipple before pinching while the vibranium one mirrors the motion on the other, cool metal warming fast against your skin. He tugs and rolls your nipples between his fingers, twisting just hard enough to make you gasp and grind down firmer, your clit dragging along his now fully hard length.

Every rock of your hips pulls a low rumble from his chest, his cock throbbing hot and rigid between your folds, precum mixing with your slickness until you’re both dripping.

“God, look at you,” he breathes, voice gravel-rough, eyes dark as he watches himself disappear and reappear between your lips with every roll. “Using that pretty pussy to get me hard again…”

You nod slowly, breath hitching as you grind down one last time, feeling him throb fully hard and ready between your slick folds.

“How do you want me?” you ask, voice soft and needy, eyes locked on his.

Bucky’s lips curve into a wolfish smile.

“How do I want you?” he echoes, voice low and rough, vibranium hand sliding down to grip your hip possessively. “I want you under me, baby. Ankles right beside your ears.” His eyes darken further, thumb stroking your skin. “How do you want to take it? Rough? Slow?”

You lean in, pecking his lips quick and teasing, a breathless laugh escaping you. “That’s up to you.”

His brows lift, surprise flickering before that hungry edge sharpens again. “You really trusting me to leave it up to me?” He swallows hard, throat working, gaze searching yours for a beat—like he’s making sure. Then he exhales, soft and resolute. “Alright. We can take it slow.”

He shifts, strong arms lifting you effortlessly as he moves you both to the chaise end of the sectional, laying you back against the soft leather. The cool surface contrasts with the heat of your skin, and he settles between your thighs, nudging them wider with his knees.

“Get in position for me,” he murmurs, voice deep and commanding, sending a shiver straight through you. “Ankles up by your ears. And spread that pretty pussy—use your fingers on both sides of your lips. Show it to me.”

You obey without hesitation, legs folding back until your ankles frame your face, knees splayed wide. Your hands slide down, fingers parting your slick, swollen folds, baring yourself completely—glistening, aching, dripping for him.

Bucky groans low and guttural, eyes locked on you like he’s starving. “Fuck, look at that… I just wanna eat that pussy, but next time—right now, I need to fuck you.”

He leans over you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding his thick cock. He slaps it against you once, twice—wet, heavy thuds that make you gasp and clench around nothing. Then the broad head teases you—rubbing slow circles over your clit, then dragging down to nudge your entrance. 

He presses in just barely, stretching you open an inch before pulling back. Again—deeper, teasing—until he surges forward in one controlled thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

The stretch is overwhelming, his thick length splitting you wide as your walls flutter and grip him. A muffled moan tears from your throat; his rumbles deep in his chest, ragged and desperate.

“Oh fuck—” he murmurs, forehead dropping to yours. 

He stills, hips flush, letting you feel every pulsing inch—impossibly deep in this folded position, the head kissing your cervix until your toes curl beside your ears.

Then he pulls back slow, dragging every ridge along your walls, before slamming home again. Each thrust jolts through you, wet slaps echoing, your slick coating him, dripping where you’re joined. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you pinned open, helpless to his rhythm.

“Look at you,” he rasps between thrusts, voice wrecked, eyes flicking from your face to where he disappears into you. “Taking me so deep… feel how full you are, baby?”

His control frays—breaths rougher, hips snapping harder as you gasp, “Fuck me like that.” Sweat beads on his skin, vibranium hand tightening on your thigh.

He locks eyes with you. “Look down,” he orders, gravel-rough. “Watch me fuck this pretty pussy. Watch how you take every inch.”

You obey, gaze dropping to where your folds stretch tight around his glistening shaft, swallowing him whole on every sink.

“That’s it,” he growls, pace turning heavier, more possessive. He slams deep, grinds slow circles against that spot that sparks stars behind your eyes. “You feel me? Feel how deep I am? I’m not letting you go this time—never again.”

He rasps against your ear, thrusting faster—balls-deep slams marking you inside out. “Gonna fuck a hole inside you only I can fill.”

“Oh God—yes,” you choke out, voice breaking on every word as tears prick your eyes from the intensity.

“Yeah?” His eyes lock on yours, wild and undone, but soft at the edges with everything he hasn’t said in a month. “You want me to give you everything? Want me to knock you up so you never forget who you belong to—who you love?”

You nod frantically, nails raking down his back. “Yes—God, yes—don’t stop—”

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, vibranium hand sliding to your lower belly, pressing just enough for you to feel him moving inside you. “Gonna give you all of me. Gonna love you so fucking deep you’ll feel me for days—every time you move, you’ll know you’re mine.”

His forehead drops to yours, sweat-slick skin sliding, thrusts frantic now—hips snapping, chaise rocking.

“Look at me,” he rasps, cupping your jaw. His blue eyes lock wild and intense. “I love you too—fuck, I love you.”

“I love—”

His mouth crashes onto yours, devouring, tongue thrusting in time with his cock as he ruts like he’s possessed—pouring a month of longing into every slam. His vibranium arm hooks your knee tighter, folding you impossibly deeper.

“Bucky—I’m gonna come—”

He grunts into the kiss, nipping your lip. “Then come. I want that pretty pussy squeezing me first.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling hard in sync with his relentless thrusts—and you shatter.

“Yes—yes—” you cry, walls clenching vise-tight, pulsing around him as pleasure whites out everything. Your nails dig bloody trails down his back; he hisses, thrusts erratic, chasing your climax.

His hips stutter, losing all rhythm as the pressure coils unbearably tight at the base of his spine.

“Fuck—oh fuck—” The words fracture against your neck, muffled and raw. His cock jerks again and again, thick ropes of semen flooding deep in hot, endless surges while he grinds slow circles. Each spasm drags helpless whine from him, hips grinding instinctively, dragging every last shuddering drop as far into you as he can get.

Finally spent, his body sags heavily on top of you—warm, sweat-slick weight pressing you into the chaise cushions, chest heaving with ragged pants against your throat. 

You unfold slowly, legs trembling as you lower them, ankles sliding down his sides until your thighs bracket his hips. The shift draws a soft groan from him—cock still buried deep, softening but reluctant to leave, letting gravity ease him out with a warm trickle of your mixed release leaking onto the leather.

Bucky lifts his head just enough to find your mouth, kissing you sweetly—slow, tender presses of his lips, gentle brushes of tongue, no hunger now, only devotion. He trails soft kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose.

He stays close, forehead resting against yours, the faint sheen of sweat cooling between you in the dim glow of the lamps. Those blue eyes, heavy-lidded and unguarded, trace your face like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with leftover want, thumb stroking slow along your cheekbone. “So fucking much.”

You lean up just enough to brush a soft peck against his lips, lingering there a second before pulling back. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, guilt threading through the words. “I’ll be more mindful when you’re stressed. I didn’t mean to push.”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, the sound warm and forgiving as he nuzzles closer, lips grazing yours again. “It’s okay, baby. Honestly? Best kind of stress relief I’ve had in weeks.” The corner of his mouth quirks—that familiar teasing glint flickering back into his eyes. “Might start picking fights on purpose if this is how we make up.”

He steals one more slow, sweet kiss before easing his weight off you. The cool air of the room rushes between your thighs, sticky and sensitive, and he notices the way you shift. “C’mon, let me clean you up.”

Before you can protest, he’s sliding his arms beneath you and lifting you effortlessly against his chest in a bridal carry. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, legs dangling, still boneless and floating as he pads barefoot across the living room toward the bathroom.

That’s when you glance over his shoulder—and freeze.

The tall brownstone windows are thrown wide open, sheer curtains pushed aside, and directly across the narrow street, in the window of the opposite brownstone, Mrs. Kowalski—the sweet little old lady who always bakes too many cookies and leaves them on Bucky’s stoop—is standing there in her robe, sipping coffee.

She’s holding up both hands, fingers splayed: a perfect 10.

Then she gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up, mouths “Happy New Year!” and adds a cheeky little golf clap.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, mortified heat flooding your face as you duck your head into Bucky’s neck.

Bucky slows, brow furrowing at the sudden tension in your body. “What?”

“Don’t—don’t turn around,” you hiss, burying your face deeper into his neck. “You’ll flash the entire block.”

Bucky freezes mid-step, confusion flickering before realization hits him like a truck. He’s stark naked, dick out in the breeze, carrying you the same way. His eyes widen, a rare flush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears—the Winter Soldier actually blushing.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, shifting his hold on you instinctively to angle his hips away from the window, using your body like a very strategic human shield. He risks one quick, awkward sideways glance—just enough to spot Mrs. K’s scorecard performance—then snaps his gaze forward again, jaw tight and cringing from motification.

Mrs. Kowalski winks, points at you both like a proud matchmaker, and shuffles off—probably to speed dial her bridge club with the gossip of the century.

Bucky exhales a choked laugh, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as his whole body vibrates with it. “Well… at least we got a perfect score?” he manages, voice strained between amusement and genuine mortification. “Fuck, I’m never living this down. She’s gonna tell the whole block I’ve still got it.”

TAGS:

@shezataurus13 @padfooteyes @ssweeterthanher @nonyabusinesswhatmynameis @lila-cat

@yes-ilovetowrite @yoruse @bripenguin-blog @mariamorales1998 @23727sierravista

@sof-has-hyperfixations @squishyfruitloop @manebabe @astrofluke @rapturtle

@buckyslove1917 @winteriscummming @waywardsai @shamelessysunday @adventures-of-impala

@jai200700 @nikkitabarnes @missvelvetsstuff @serendippindots @ghoul-rider

@xneetx1 @caitlinvd @simpxmarvel @kmc1989 @fluidlystrangerealm

@swimmingnightcolor @uhlillie @daisynotquake @daydreamin1220 @fandoml0vers

@starsrfun @fuzzyphantomsoul @buckysbabygorl @classyinfernomartyr @greatenthusiasttidalwave

You reached for a butter knife and slipped it under the flap.

The paper inside was unremarkable; just an ordinary 8×11 with an ordinary Times New Roman font. And the normalcy of it all made it worse.

Because it wasn’t until you read the line that your pulse stalled.

The Winter Soldier can’t protect you.

Your breath didn’t catch so much as vanish. The letters stared back at you, ordinary and violent in their composure. No magazine clippings, no theatrics; just a clean, unapologetic sentence, meant to cut you to the quick.

You stared at it, unmoving. The ink didn’t blur. You looked away, as if not looking would erase its contents.

It didn’t work, so you read it again.

The Winter Soldier. Not Bucky. Not James. Not even Congressman Barnes. Whoever had written this didn’t see him as a man; they saw him as a weapon. And they wanted you to know you’d made the wrong choice.

You took a photo before your hands started to shake.

Your first instinct was denial: this was a prank, a mix-up, some bored neighbor who saw him at your door and had bad sense of humor. But the neatness of the envelope, the way it had been propped up against your door with care rather than tossed in front of it, you couldn’t dismiss it. This had intent.

By the time your pulse settled, the sun had slipped lower, turning your living room the color of weak tea. You set the paper face-down and washed your hands even though they weren’t dirty. The hot water ran too long. You shut it off and stared at your phone.

You typed a message to him and erased it. Typed again. Erased again. You couldn’t find the words. 

When your screen lit with an unknown caller ten minutes later, your body moved faster than your thoughts. You answered before you could think. 

There was silence before a man’s voice, pitched low, said, “Should’ve chosen better who you went home with.”

Then the line clicked dead.

You stood in your kitchen with the phone still pressed to your ear, the echo of his voice louder than the radiator hiss or the street noise outside. The air felt thinner. The walls felt closer.

And still, somehow, you weren’t surprised.

This wasn’t just about you. It never had been. This was about him. Or what someone thought he was.

So you called him. Something like this wasn’t meant for a text message.

He answered on the second ring. His voice was a rasp of concern before you’d said anything. “Hey. You okay?”

“No.” The word came out steadier than you felt. “A note was left at my door.” You told him what it said. You told him about the call. You didn’t let your voice break on either, but it was close.

You heard nothing until an angry half-breath made itself known on his end. “I’m coming over.”

You knew better than to argue with that tone, but you tried anyway. “You don’t—”

You heard the whisper of fabric, the click of a door, the hollow echo of his boots in a hallway that wasn’t yours. “I’ll be there in ten.”

*****

He arrived in seven.

You hadn’t expected him to be early, but then again, you hadn’t expected any of this. Not the note, not the call, not the quiet terror still curled tight beneath your ribs. And not the way he stood in your doorway now, soaked from the rain, eyes scanning the room like it might be hiding something from him.

His gaze swept everything in the span of seconds: walls, corners, windows, shadows. He seemed to assess it by instinct more than thought, born from muscle memory. Then, finally, his eyes found yours and held there, heavy with unspoken questions.

You didn’t answer any of them aloud. You just stepped back and let him in.

He crossed the threshold with a kind of controlled urgency. He didn’t ask where to stand. He didn’t take off his boots. He was entirely present, but not exactly here, more like something watchful had taken hold of him.

You thought, briefly, that he might ask why you waited to call. How long you’d been sitting with that note in your apartment, whether you’d hesitated to involve him, but he didn’t.

He turned toward you and you handed him the envelope without a word.

He read it once. Once was enough.

You saw it land in his body: the tightening of his jaw, the small pulse in his temple, the flicker of light across the wet metal of his hand as the fingers flexed once, then stilled. His expression didn’t change much, but something in the room did.

“Someone left this at your door?” he asked quietly, voice carefully measured, though the heat beneath it was barely contained.

You nodded. “Yes. And then they called.”

You recited the message exactly, word for word, and left everything else unsaid: the cold in your fingers, the way you’d rechecked the lock after you called him, how long you’d stood with your back against it just to feel something solid. You didn’t have to say any of that. He was already hearing it in your voice.

He lowered the paper slowly and placed it flat on the counter like it was toxic. Then, with no hesitation: “I’m staying here tonight.”

You turned your head sharply. “What? No.” The word came out firmer than you expected. “We barely know anything about this.”

He blinked. Not in offense, but in genuine surprise, like it hadn’t even occurred to him that you might push back. “That doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me,” you said. Calm, grounded, but not cold. You weren’t trying to fight him, but you needed to reclaim the calm that had just been taken from you. “This could be a one-off weirdo who saw you here one time. I’m not letting whoever left that note make decisions about who stays in my apartment.”

The muscle in his jaw shifted again, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t challenge you, didn’t raise his voice or try to sway you. He just stood there in silence, the air between you filled with rainlight and restraint.

Then, finally, with no trace of sarcasm: “I can sit outside your door. In the hallway.”

You huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “That’s somehow even weirder.”

One side of his mouth twitched like he might’ve smiled in another life, but it didn’t last. “I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I.”

Your eyes dropped to the paper again. It hadn’t moved, hadn’t changed, but the room still felt smaller for it, like its presence had warped the air around it. You wanted to burn it, or throw it out, or fold it so small it couldn’t speak to you anymore.

He exhaled sharply and ran a hand over his face, wiping away the last of the rain more out of habit than necessity. “I’ll pull the building’s cameras,” he said after a moment. “See who was here. Who might’ve followed you. And—”

He paused, jaw tightening again, the words catching somewhere between frustration and regret. “I’m sorry. That something like this touched you at all.”

You looked at him, and the steadiness in your own voice surprised you. “I think it was always going to.” You meant it. You hadn’t been naive. “I knew who you were the second I saw that press conference. I should’ve known what contacting you might come with.”

His expression didn’t change much, but something painful and private flickered in his eyes. It wasn’t shame, but more like mourning for something that had never had a chance to be simple.

He nodded once, reluctantly accepting your choice. 

You walked him to the door, not because you wanted him gone, but because you needed to finish the conversation with movement. If you stayed still much longer, you weren’t sure you’d stay upright.

He lingered. His hand hovered near the handle like it took more effort to leave than he’d admit. His eyes were darker now, focused and sharp.

“If anything else happens,” he said, voice low, controlled, but firm enough to cut through your thoughts, “you call me. Immediately.”

You met his gaze without flinching and nodded. “I will.”

He searched your face again like there was something he was supposed to find there, some confirmation you were okay, or strong enough to stand your ground even when things got worse. But whatever he was looking for, you didn’t know how to give it.

He gave a final nod and stepped out into the corridor, leaving behind a trail of quiet water and something heavier, something that stayed even after the door closed.

You turned the lock with a small, deliberate click and stood there for a while, forehead resting against the cool wood, listening.

The quiet little noises of your apartment were oddly comforting. 

You didn’t want to move, but you had to.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Unknown number.

You didn’t answer it. You just watched the screen, breath caught somewhere between dread and defiance, while the caller left a message. The preview text rolled in, another fragment, another message from someone who wanted you afraid.

And yet, for all the unease still clawing through your ribs, your heartbeat didn’t spike the same way it had before.

You weren’t frozen now, because you weren’t really alone. You’d drawn a line, between what you’d allow and what you wouldn’t, between fear and permission, and you’d held it.

You stood there in the hush and let yourself breathe.

The message could wait.

*****

The threats hadn’t stopped.

If anything, they’d worsened.

What started as a note slid under your door had turned into a pattern over the course of the week. Missed calls that left no voicemail but still lingered in your call history, texts sent from burner numbers that proved untraceable, a car idling too long at the curb outside your building. Nothing was overt enough to hand to the police and expect results, but together it was enough to make sleep a negotiation.

Bucky had tried to handle it himself at first. He’d pulled every favor he had left, leaned on contacts who owed him from lives he no longer wanted to remember, spent long nights staring at footage and metadata that led nowhere. Whoever this was knew how to stay just outside the edges. They understood blind spots. They understood him.

And you had noticed. Not because you panicked, but because you were observant in that quiet, grounded way that made it impossible for him to lie convincingly. You’d started asking questions he didn’t want to answer. Asking how long this kind of thing usually lasted. Asking what happened when it didn’t stop.

By the fifth night of too little sleep and too much worry sitting heavy in his chest, he’d accepted what he’d been avoiding.

He couldn’t fix this alone. And that meant going to Val.

Her office sat high in the Watchtower, all glass and shadow and deliberate intimidation. It was designed to make people feel small, to remind them who controlled the narrative before a single word was ever spoken. The skyline flared behind her like a living backdrop, the city reduced to something she could gesture at to make a point.

She stood when he walked in with you beside him.

Her smile was polished and careful, meant to soothe while tightening a leash. “Bucky,” she said warmly. “And our guest, of course.”

He felt you stiffen just enough to register, a subtle tension beside him that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with instinct. He shifted a fraction closer without thinking, not blocking, not hovering, just protective in a way that meant you weren’t alone in this room.

Val noticed. Her gaze flicked down, satisfied. “I’m glad you both came.”

On her desk lay a neat spread of documents: printouts of text messages in grayscale, transcriptions of voicemails stripped of tone but not intent, and an image of the note rendered in clean, impersonal font. 

The Winter Soldier won’t protect you.

Val rested one lacquered nail on the corner of the page. “This,” she said smoothly to Bucky, “is precisely why I warned you she was a complication.”

She didn’t even glance at you when she said it.

“You can’t afford this kind of exposure,” Val continued, eyes fixed on him, voice calm and reasonable in a way that made his jaw tighten.

“That’s not exposure,” he shot back, heat climbing his spine before he could stop it. He didn’t try to soften his tone. “Those are threats. To her. To the baby.”

Sympathy, expertly applied, flickered across Val’s face, but it never reached her eyes. “Of course,” she said. “Which is why we act. Now.”

She turned the pages slowly, “A public situation like this could destabilize the New Avengers initiative, compromise your leadership position, and create national security concerns for the child, the mother, and yourself.” She slid the word mother across the desk without looking at you, like a piece on a board. “I’m trying to contain a PR bomb.”

You spoke before he could stop you, voice quiet but steady. “I don’t care about PR. I care about not having strangers slide notes under my door.”

Val’s smile thinned. “And that is exactly why I’m intervening.”

Bucky stepped forward, palms braced against the edge of her desk. The city’s reflection fractured across his knuckles, steel and skin alike caught in the same lattice of light. “Intervening how?”

“You need her safe,” Val said, letting the words land with deliberate weight. “You need this quiet. And right now, you need her somewhere no one can reach her.”

He felt the shift beside him, the way your body went still and alert.

“She has a home,” he said evenly.

“And it is compromised.” Val turned another page, revealing a grainy still from a hallway camera he hadn’t known existed. Your door. The envelope. The moment caught from an angle that made his stomach drop. “Whoever left the note either lives in her building or has access to it. We’ve identified three unknown individuals on the footage.” Her smile sharpened. “I’ll find them.”

The promise sounded like a threat.

“In the meantime,” she continued, “we need to remove the target.”

“That’s not your decision,” he said, flat.

Val lifted a brow and spoke with what she must have thought was sincerity. “It’s my responsibility.” Then she finally turned her attention to you, softening her tone just a hair. “This isn’t punishment. It’s protection. Temporary. We have security, resources, and discretion. You’ll be comfortable.”

She looked back at him. “She’ll be alive. And your child will be safe.”

The word child cut through him more cleanly than a knife.

He hated that the logic was sound. He hated that Val knew exactly how to frame it so resistance sounded reckless. She built cages out of reasonable sentences and locked them with compassion, and she’d been doing it longer than he’d been free.

He stood there, hands still on the desk, caught between the instinct to shield you from her and the unbearable knowledge that the danger wasn’t theoretical.

And worst of all, he knew she was right.

He looked at you then, because there was nowhere else for his eyes to go.

He needed to see your face when he couldn’t find an argument strong enough to keep you where you belonged. He needed to know whether you were afraid, or angry, or already preparing for the worst. But you weren’t looking at him. Your attention was fixed on the printout on Val’s desk, on that single line of text rendered in neutral font, your expression gone still in a way he’d come to recognize over the past week.

It wasn’t panic. It was calculation.

You were braced, steadying yourself, already weighing what this would cost you and what it might buy in return. He hated that you had learned how to do that so quickly because of him.

“You will be housed on the guest floor,” Val continued, smoothing the air with practiced ease. “Limited access, controlled entry points, twenty-four-hour security. Medical transport for appointments. Everything coordinated through the tower.” She paused, then selected the word with care, like something polished and expensive. “The situation will be contained.”

You exhaled through your nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if there had been any humor left in it. “You mean controlled.”

Val’s eyes cooled a fraction. “Words are flexible,” she said. “Outcomes are not.”

Bucky straightened before he realized he was moving. The metal fingers of his left hand flexed, the quiet mechanical tick sharp in the room’s hush. “I’ll stay there too,” he said, cutting in before Val could add a condition that boxed him out. “Down the hall. Same floor. I’m not leaving her alone inside your system.”

Val didn’t argue, and that made his stomach sink.

“If that makes you cooperative,” she said lightly, her smile widening, “by all means.”

He didn’t know how but he felt like he was playing right into her scheming hands. He wanted to break something small and irreplaceable, just to remind himself he still could. Instead, he forced his hands flat against his thighs and kept his voice even.

“This is temporary,” he said. “Until we find who’s behind the messages.”

“Of course,” Val replied, and the way she said it made clear that ‘temporary’ meant ‘until I decide otherwise’.

He turned back to you, deliberately, grounding himself in the reality of your presence rather than the architecture of her power. “It’s your choice,” he said, careful and precise, because if he didn’t say it aloud, it would disappear under Val’s avalanche of logistics. “You don’t have to—”

Val cut him off smoothly, like a blade wrapped in velvet. “She’s already under credible threat. It’s your only option.”

You lifted your gaze to Val then, calm in a way that tightened something painful in his chest. “What happens if I say no?”

Val didn’t hesitate. Her smile returned, gentle and absolute. “Then I notify the appropriate agencies that a civilian under threat declined protective relocation. They will document it.” She spread her hands slightly. “And when the press learns your name—and they will—it will be noted that we offered you the safest possible option. I can’t prevent every consequence.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Bucky then back to you. “I can keep you breathing.”

The silence that followed was heavy and pressurized, like a cracked glass waiting to implode.

“I hate this,” he said quietly, the words dragged out of him before he could stop them.

“I know,” Val replied, tone softened into something that mimicked empathy. “I hate it too.”

She didn’t.

He watched you take in the room, the glare off the windows, the city spread out behind her like she owned it, the way every exit had narrowed until there was only one path left. Your shoulders squared slightly in acceptance. 

When you nodded, it wasn’t surrender, but resolve.

Val’s hand moved immediately, pressing the intercom button before your head had fully dipped. “Initiate relocation to the guest floor,” she said. “Immediately.”

Footsteps answered from the hallway.

Bucky wanted to reach for you, offer you something solid and human in the middle of all this procedural cruelty, but he didn’t. Touch felt like something Val would catalog and repurpose, and he refused to give her even that.

Instead, he met your eyes and held them, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the look alone: I’m here. I’m not leaving. I will fix this. I’m so sorry.

You held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then looked away as two agents appeared in the doorway. They were young, efficient, and polite. You recognized the choreography of a decision already made.

“Thank you for your flexibility,” Val said, as if you’d rescheduled a meeting instead of surrendering your life to controlled corridors and locked doors. “We’ll ensure you have everything you need.”

There was no time to respond. The agents were already guiding you toward the hall, toward elevators that would close and rise and deliver you to a place designed to look like safety while functioning like a cage.

Bucky followed a step behind, breath tight in his chest. Every footfall echoed the same truth: he couldn’t stop this. Not yet.

Behind them, Val’s office door closed with a soft, decisive click, sealing in the city, the skyline, and the neat fan of printouts left on her desk like proof that this had never really been a choice at all.

*****

The guest floor opened with the hush of something too carefully designed to be real. Sound was absorbed here by thick carpeting, double-insulated walls, and muted efficiency. The lighting was low and deliberate, casting warmth along the baseboards and avoiding the ceilings entirely. 

The air smelled wrong for a living space: lemon cleaner masking metal, eucalyptus struggling beneath both; a scent meant to suggest calm but fell short of the mark.

The agents who brought you in had polite, modulated voices, all soft vowels and military polish. Every sentence was delivered like a comfort, but felt like a formality: Ma’am, your badge grants access only to the guest floor. Ma’am, cameras are placed discreetly in the hall. Ma’am, doors will secure automatically at 2200 hours for your peace of mind.

Peace of mind.

You didn’t ask them to clarify who that peace was actually for.

When you stepped into the room, it was like being swallowed whole.

Everything was too pristine. A bed with hospital-tight corners and a single, immaculate pillow. A low sofa, upholstered in something expensive and uninviting. A glass-top desk with no cords or scuffs, no sign of use. A tray of perfectly aligned bottled waters on a credenza that hadn’t gathered a speck of dust. A framed print of the skyline next to the real one.

You crossed to the window and tugged at it. It didn’t budge.

“They don’t open,” one of the agents offered, voice apologetic like that was meant to soften the blow. “Security standard.”

You nodded. That much you’d expected. But the word prison still passed through your thoughts like a breeze under the door, quiet, creeping, and undeniable.

The bathroom gleamed under the lights: seamless tile, untouched towels, chrome without fingerprints. The closet was cavernous and empty except for a hanging robe. 

The kitchenette looked like it had been staged for a brochure: an unused kettle, a basket of unopened teas, a laminated card with grocery delivery instructions in clean, corporate font.

One of the agents handed you a card with a single number on it, printed in bold above a line of smaller reassurance: Call this for anything you need. You set it down on the credenza, careful and deliberate.

“The contents of your apartment will be packed and delivered to you within 24 hours,” she added, her tone too neutral to tell if it was a reassurance or a warning.

You managed a quiet “Thank you,” though you weren’t sure who you were thanking or for what.

When they were satisfied you had absorbed the orientation, they left as smoothly as they arrived. The door clicked shut behind them with the smallest possible sound. It was still deafening. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, letting its too-springy surface shift under your weight. The bedding was soft and like everything else in this room, it was made to suggest comfort, not actually offer it. Your phone rested in your lap, screen dark, the reflective surface catching the soft white of the ceiling lights. There were no messages, no missed calls, just silence.

You traced the edge of the phone with your thumb to steady yourself against the sterile quiet of this place. You hated the lack of familiar sounds: no rattling pipes, no neighbor’s dog barking at inopportune hours. Just the low hum of the HVAC and the soft, distant thrum of elevator machinery below.

This wasn’t a home. 

You told yourself this was a temporary compromise. That it was reasonable. That it had been your choice. You reminded yourself that being cautious wasn’t the same as being helpless, but it still felt like being locked inside someone else’s version of safety.

From across the hall, you heard the faintest shift of weight, leather brushing against a wall, and a boot dragging softly on industrial carpet. You didn’t need to check. Bucky hadn’t gone far.

You could picture it: the tension in his shoulders, the steady line of his jaw. One hand at his side, the other not quite clenched, but braced and ready.

He wouldn’t leave unless you asked him to. He wouldn’t press, either, just orbit.

You looked back toward the window, your reflection faint in the glass. You looked smaller here, dimmer. The city stretched beyond, familiar and unreachable all at once. Your access badge rested on the credenza like a borrowed name tag. The card with the emergency number sat beside it, neat and silent, waiting to be needed.

You stared at your phone again, thumb hovering near the screen. You thought, for a brief second, about sending a message. Not to Val’s team, not to whatever line promised ‘anything at all’, but to him. Just a small, human phrase: Are you still out there?

You didn’t type it, but you thought it all the same.

*****

Valentina Allegra De Fontaine swirled the wine in her glass and let the silence echo. Somewhere below, the Watchtower exhaled: elevators sighing, ventilation thrumming, doors whispering shut. Upstairs, the guest wing had settled into its new configuration with one occupied room. Contained, she thought, pleased by the neatness of the word.

Her phone chimed once, a number with no name. She answered before the second ring.

“Mm,” she said, an acknowledgment that doubled as hello. “Yes, you were successful.”

Whoever spoke on the other end did so in the low, eager pitch of someone expecting praise. Val indulged them with the efficiency of a surgeon. “You were discreet,” she said. “And punctual. That combination is extremely rare.”

There was a beat of protest, something about the ‘messages’ not being threats, just ‘warnings.’ Val smiled, the kind that never quite reached her eyes.

“Ah, but I don’t traffic in threats,” she said, voice warm as velvet and just as suffocating. “I traffic in outcomes.”

She set her wine down, fingertip aligning the stem with the seam in the coaster. “And the outcome,” she continued, glancing at the open folder, “is that our civilian made an informed decision to accept security. Voluntarily.” She let the last word purr. “Which means we’ve spared her the spectacle and him the scandal. The situation is now contained.”

A question came back, anxious, about the paper trail. Val’s eyes flicked to the shred bin, already half-full of tidy confetti. “There is no trail,” she said.

She listened, nodded, and smiled again when the voice circled back to payment. “As agreed,” she said. “And consider the line open for future... community outreach.”

She ended the call without goodbye and let the phone rest on the leather blotter. For a moment she studied the reflection of her lamp in the window: a small, steady halo in an ocean of colder light. Control rarely announced itself with fireworks; it arrived as a narrowing set of options until only the sensible one remained.

Below, the building hummed. Across a bank of cameras in a concealed monitor, the guest-wing corridor held two silhouettes: the woman sitting on the edge of a bed she hadn’t wanted, the man a fixed point across the hall. Val’s expression softened by an imperceptible degree, as if she were genuinely moved by the tableau her planning had produced.

“Temporary,” she murmured to the glass. “For now.”

She closed the folder, smoothed her hand over the cover, and reached to turn off the lamp. The skyline dimmed a shade in the window, and the office let out its last, satisfied breath.

Next: Chapter 4: For Appearances Only