The Shadows of Us (Oneshot)
Summary: You glide through the museum gala in your elegant gown, only to be cornered by Bucky, your mafia king ex, whose broken pleas and unrelenting desire draw you back into his dangerous world with promises of protection and endless love.
Paring: (Mafia) Bucky x Reader
word count: 8000+
warnings: NSFW
A/N : Here is another Mafia Bucky x Reader oneshot I have been working on for the past few days, I am currently in the process of writing a Mafia Series so hopefully that will be up in the coming months! Let me know what you think!
Masterlist
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
The grand ballroom of the Metropolitan Museum gleams under crystal chandeliers, the air thick with perfume, champagne flutes clinking, and the low hum of cultured conversation. It’s the annual gala—art patrons in tuxedos and gowns, donors flashing smiles sharp enough to cut glass. You move through it all with practiced ease, your heels clicking against the polished marble floor, your sleek black gown hugging every curve. Your hair is swept up in an elegant chignon, a few tendrils framing your face; makeup flawless, lips painted deep crimson. You’re in your element here. This is your world now—curator, host, the charming face of the museum’s development team.
You laugh at a trustee’s joke, touch an elderly donor’s arm lightly as you thank him for his generosity, glide seamlessly from one conversation to the next. You’re good at this. You always were. It’s one of the things he loved most about you—how you could talk to anyone, make them feel seen, disarm them with a smile.
You feel him before you see him.
That prickle at the back of your neck. The sudden weight of a stare that’s too intense to be casual. You don’t turn around. You don’t need to. You know exactly who it is.
James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky to you, once upon a time. The man who runs half the city’s shadows from penthouse offices and back rooms. The man whose name is whispered with fear and respect in equal measure. The man you walked away from four months ago.
You broke his heart. And he let you.
No—worse. He begged you not to go.
You remember it too clearly: the night you packed your bags in the mansion you shared, tears streaming down your face as you told him you couldn’t do it anymore. Not the danger. Not the late nights wondering if he’d come home with blood on his hands. Not the attempt on his life three weeks earlier that left two of his men dead and you shaking in a safe house for days.
“I can’t live waiting for the day someone finally gets lucky and puts a bullet in you,” you’d sobbed. “I can’t keep pretending I’m strong enough for this life.”
He’d dropped to his knees. The most ruthless man in New York, on his knees in front of you, voice breaking. “Please, doll. Don’t do this. I’ll fix it. I’ll make it safe. I’ll burn the whole fucking city down if that’s what it takes. Just—don’t leave me.”
You left anyway.
And now he’s here.
You feel his gaze like a physical touch, tracking you across the ballroom. You don’t look. You won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you laugh a little louder, touch a handsome young artist’s arm a little longer, let your smile linger. You know he’s watching. You know it’s driving him insane.
You’re playing with fire. And part of you loves the burn.
Eventually, the crowd thins as people drift toward the silent auction or the bar. You slip away, needing a moment alone. Your heels echo down a quieter corridor, past priceless artifacts in glass cases, until you reach the private powder room reserved for staff and VIPs. It’s a sanctuary of luxury—marble floors veined with gold, chevron-patterned tile accents, custom walnut cabinetry, Kohler fixtures gleaming under soft sconce lighting. A long mirror runs the length of one wall above double sinks. Plush towels folded like spa origami. The faint scent of gardenia from the diffuser.
You step inside, let the door click shut behind you, and exhale.
You’re at the mirror fixing a stray curl when the door opens again.
You freeze.
He steps in, tall and broad and devastating in a tailored black tuxedo that does nothing to hide the power in his frame. Brown hair swept back, stubble shadowing his sharp jaw, ink peeking at his neck and wrists. His blue eyes lock on yours in the mirror.
He turns the lock. The click is soft. Final.
“Bucky,” you say, voice cool, professional. “This is the ladies’ room.”
“I know.” His voice is low, rough, like he hasn’t slept in months. Maybe he hasn’t.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m exactly where I need to be.” He steps closer. You can smell his cologne—cedar and gun oil and something uniquely him. “You’ve been avoiding me all night.”
“I’ve been working.”
“Bullshit.” One more step. He’s close enough now that you can see the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. “You knew I was watching. You were putting on a show.”
You lift your chin. “I was doing my job.”
“You were teasing me.” His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, slow and deliberate. “Wearing this dress. Laughing with those men. Knowing I couldn’t touch you.”
Your pulse hammers. “We’re not together anymore, Bucky. You don’t get to be jealous.”
He laughs, dark and bitter. “I’ll always be jealous when it comes to you. You’re mine.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” He’s right behind you now, hands braced on the marble counter on either side of your hips, caging you in without touching. His breath is warm against your ear. “You’ve always been mine. And I’ve been in hell without you.”
You swallow. “Bucky—”
“I can’t sleep,” he says, voice cracking just slightly. “Can’t eat. Can’t fucking think. My temper’s been a hair trigger—Steve won’t even stay in the same room as me half the time. Everyone knows why. Because you left. Because I let you.”
“You didn’t let me. I chose to go.”
“Because you thought I couldn’t protect you.” His forehead drops to your shoulder, a shudder running through him. “I failed you. I know that. But I’ve had eyes on you every day since you left. My men. Watching from a distance. Making sure nothing touched you.”
“I know,” you whisper. You’d seen them—the shadows that followed but never approached. “I always knew.”
“I couldn’t let anything happen to you. Not even me being without you.” His voice breaks. “Please, doll. Come home. I need you. I’ll get on my knees again if that’s what it takes. I’ll beg. I’ll do anything.”
Your resolve wavers. You turn in the circle of his arms, meeting his eyes. They’re glassy, desperate. The most powerful man in the city, undone.
“I was so scared,” you admit quietly.
“I know. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry I ever made you feel unsafe. But I swear on my life—nothing will touch you again. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you happy. Just… come back to me.”
You search his face. See the remorse, the guilt, the raw, aching love.
“I missed you too,” you breathe.
The words snap something in him.
His mouth crashes into yours, hungry and pleading all at once. You kiss him back just as desperately, hands fisting in his lapels. He groans into your mouth, lifting you onto the counter, stepping between your thighs. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, sliding up your back to pull you closer.
“Please,” he whispers against your lips. “Let me show you how much I need you.”
You’re lost.
The ride home is torture.
In the back of the black SUV, his driver discreetly raises the privacy partition. Bucky’s hands are on you the moment the glass clicks into place—mouth devouring yours, fingers digging into your thighs, pulling you into his lap. You straddle him, dress rucked up, grinding down shamelessly as he growls into your neck.
“Couldn’t wait,” he pants, biting your collarbone. “Needed to taste you the second you said you missed me.”
You moan when his hand slips under your dress, finding you soaked. “Bucky…”
“Shh. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off until we’re home.”
He fingers you slowly, expertly, thumb circling your clit until you’re trembling, biting his shoulder to stay quiet. You come with a muffled cry against his neck, and he licks his fingers clean while watching you with dark, possessive eyes.
“Mine,” he whispers.
The mansion is quiet when you arrive—staff dismissed for the night. The second the door shuts behind you, clothes start coming off. His jacket hits the floor. Your dress is unzipped and pooled at your feet. He lifts you, carries you up the grand staircase, mouth never leaving yours.
By the time you reach the master bedroom, you’re both naked, desperate.
Hours blur.
The ache between your thighs is a slick, throbbing memory. Hours of him. Hours of Bucky. His sweat still cools on your skin, his scent is in your lungs, and the evidence of what you’ve done—what he’s done to you—is a warm, sticky trickle down the inside of your leg.
You’re both sprawled across the ruin of his sheets in the silent mansion, breathing hard. His muscular, tattooed arm is a heavy bar across your stomach.
Then he moves.
He rolls over, looming above you, his eyes dark and hungry all over again. “Look at you,” he rasps, his voice raw from growling your name. His thumb swipes through the mess on your inner thigh, collecting it, showing you the glistening proof. “Look at what we made. Our fucking cum, all mixed up. Dripping out of your perfect little cunt.”
You shiver. The air conditioning chills the wetness.
“Not yet,” he whispers, lowering his head. His lips are shockingly soft against yours, a tender contrast to the possessive fury of the last few hours. It starts slow, a gentle reunion. I missed this. The thought is a ghost in your mind before his tongue claims your mouth, and the kiss deepens, turns urgent, desperate. You can taste yourself on him, salty and intimate. Your hands come up, threading into his long hair, pulling him closer, losing yourself in the slick heat of his mouth.
He breaks the kiss, panting against your lips. “Let me show you,” he breathes. “Let me fucking show you how much I missed you. Every second. Every night.”
His cock, already thick and hard again, presses against your swollen entrance. You’re so wet, so open for him, but he just pushes the head in, an inch, and stops. A brutal tease. His hips rock slowly, that fat tip stretching you, making you gasp.
“Tell me,” he demands, his voice a low rumble. His hands come up to cup your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples with rough precision. “Who do you belong to?”
“Bucky…” you whimper, arching up, trying to take more of him.
He slams his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt in one devastating thrust. The air punches from your lungs. “Say it.”
You cry out, the fullness a shocking pleasure. “You! I belong to you!”
“Louder.” He pulls out almost all the way, the drag exquisitely rough, then fucks back into you, hard. The bedframe knocks against the wall. Thump. Thump. Thump.
“I BELONG TO YOU!” you scream, your nails scraping down the ink on his back.
“My good girl,” he groans, his pace settling into a relentless, punishing rhythm. Every thrust is a claim. He leans down, his mouth hot on your neck, sucking a new bruise over the old ones. “This cunt is mine. This tight, greedy little cunt was made for my cock. Look at you taking it. Look how you swallow me whole.”
You’re so full. You can feel every ridge, every pulse of him inside you. Your legs wrap around his waist, locking him in deeper.
“I’m gonna fill you up,” he promises, his breath scalding your ear. “I’m gonna pump my cum so deep inside you it never leaves. I want it to take. You understand me? I want to put a baby in you. Right now. While you’re screaming my name.”
The filthy words ignite something primal in your core. Your walls clamp around him, a sudden, violent ripple of pleasure.
“That’s it,” he snarls, feeling you clench. “Cum for me. Cum on my fucking cock while I’m telling you I’m gonna breed you.”
The orgasm tears through you, blinding and brutal. Your back bows off the bed, a ragged scream tearing from your throat as you shatter around him. He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, his pace becoming erratic, animalistic.
“Bucky, please!” you beg, oversensitive, everything raw and electric.
“Please what?” he grunts, his own release building, his balls tightening against you. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want it! I want your cum! Please, fill me up, I need it—”
His control snaps. With a roar that’s part triumph, part agony, he drives deep and stays there. You feel the hot, sudden flood of him, pulse after pulse after relentless pulse, spilling into your deepest part. It’s so much. It feels endless. A wet, claiming heat that spills out around where you’re joined, adding to the mess on the sheets.
He collapses on top of you, his weight a delicious anchor. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing and the wet, intimate sound of his cum leaking from you.
Slowly, he pushes himself up on his elbows. He looks down between your bodies, at the obscene, glistening connection. He slides out, and you both watch a thick, pearlescent stream of it follow, pooling beneath you.
Bucky dips two fingers into it, his eyes locked on yours. He brings them to your lips. “Taste it,” he whispers, his voice wrecked. “Taste what I put inside you. What’s gonna stay inside you.”
You open your mouth, and he slides his fingers in. The taste is salty, musky, him. You suck them clean, and the raw hunger in his eyes makes you tremble.
“That’s my good girl.” He smirks at the sucking sounds your mouth makes.
You’re still shuddering from his release when Bucky moves. He flips you over, his hands rough and demanding on your hips, pulling you up onto your knees. The sheets are soaked, a tangled mess beneath you. Your breath hitches as he kneels behind you, his weight shifting the mattress.
His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, hard enough you know you’ll bruise. You feel the broad, slick head of his cock nudging against your dripping entrance.
“You’re not done,” he growls, and it’s not a question.
He slams into you.
The force of it steals your breath. Your back arches, a broken cry tearing from your throat. He’s already hard again, impossibly hard, and he feels bigger like this, deeper. His cock pounds into you, a relentless, punishing rhythm that has his hips slapping against your ass with a wet, filthy sound that fills the room.
Oh god.
He leans over you, his sweat-slicked chest plastering against your back. His tattoos are a blur. One arm bands around your waist, hauling you back onto him with every thrust. The other hand fists in your hair, pulling just enough to make your scalp sting.
His teeth find the curve of your shoulder. He bites down, not gentle, a sharp, claiming pain that makes your cunt clench around him violently.
“Fuck, yes,” he groans against your skin. “Squeeze me just like that. My cunt. Stretching for my fucking cock.”
He’s not lying. You feel stretched, filled, split open by him. Every inward drive is a brutal, perfect invasion. You can feel his balls, tight and heavy, slapping against your sensitive clit with every snap of his hips, sending little shocks of sensation straight to your core.
“Bucky!” you scream, your voice ragged. Your body is shaking, struggling to hold the position, but his grip is iron. You’re completely at his mercy.
“That’s it,” he rasps. “Scream for me. Let me hear who owns this pretty, fucked-out pussy.”
He picks up the pace, fucking you harder and harder, each thrust a little more frantic, a little more desperate. The room dissolves into the sound of skin on skin, your choked sobs, his guttural grunts. You can feel your own slickness, mixed with his last release, dripping down your thighs. The smell of sex is overpowering.
His fingers dig deeper into your hips, sure to leave marks. You hope they do.
“I’m gonna come,” he snarls, his rhythm becoming jagged, erratic. “Gonna fill you up again. Pump my fucking cum so deep into this greedy little hole. You want that? You want me to breed you again?”
You can’t form words. You just nod desperately, your hair sticking to your tear-streaked face.
“Say it!” he demands, punctuating each word with a brutal thrust.
“Yes! Please! Breed me, Bucky, please!”
A deep, ragged groan is torn from his chest. He rams into you one final, devastating time, hilt-deep, and you feel him pulse. The hot, wet rush floods your core, another claiming, another desperate deposit. It feels endless, so much, and it triggers a weak, convulsive orgasm that ripples through your overstimulated cunt, milking him dry.
He collapses on top of you, his full, muscular weight pushing you down into the mattress. You both gasp for air, a tangled, sweaty, sticky heap.
For a moment, there is only the sound of your labored breathing. Then, he rolls off you, and before you can even process the cool air on your back, he’s flipping you again.
Now you’re on your back, looking up at him. His dark eyes are glazed, hungry, insatiable. He lowers himself, covering your body with his, and his mouth finds yours.
The kiss is sloppy. Desperate. All tongue and heat and shared breath. You can taste yourself, you can taste him, salty and primal. He kisses you like he’s trying to fuse your souls together, and you kiss him back with everything you have left.
While his tongue explores your mouth, you feel his hand slide between your bodies. His thumb finds your swollen, oversensitive clit. He rubs it, slow circles that make you jolt.
He breaks the kiss, panting. “One more,” he murmurs, his voice wrecked. His forehead rests against yours. “Give me one more, baby. I wanna feel you come on my cock one more time. I need it.”
You whimper, your body trembling. You’re so sensitive it’s almost painful, but the fire he lights is still there, smoldering. “Bucky… I can’t…”
“You can,” he insists, his thumb pressing harder. “You will. For me.”
He pushes back into you. You’re so wet, so loose from his cum, he slides in with one smooth, deep stroke. He groans, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Fuck. Feel how open you are for me? How you’re just… holding all my cum inside you? My perfect girl.”
He starts to move again, a slower, grinding rhythm this time. Deep, rolling thrusts that massage your deepest places. His thumb never stops its relentless, perfect circles on your clit.
“Look at you,” he breathes, his eyes locked on yours. “Look at you taking my cock like a champion. My cock was made for this cunt. Made to stretch it, fill it, breed it.” His thrusts become a little sharper. “You feel me getting hard again in there? I’m never getting soft with you. I’ll fucking die in this pussy.”
His dirty talk is a filthy, beautiful chant. It coils the tension in your belly tighter.
“Who do you belong to?” he asks, his voice dropping to a possessive rumble.
“You,” you gasp. Your hips are moving with his now, meeting each thrust.
“Say my name.”
“Bucky.”
“Scream it when you come. I want to hear it.”
He shifts his angle, and the head of his cock grinds directly against that sweet, deep spot. His thumb presses down hard on your clit. It’s too much. It’s perfect.
The orgasm builds slowly, then crests all at once. It’s not the sharp, violent peak from before. This one is a deep, rolling wave of pleasure that starts in your core and radiates out, turning your limbs to liquid heat.
“Bucky!” you cry out, your back arching off the bed.
Your cunt convulses around him, a rhythmic, fluttering grip that pulls a ragged shout from his throat. “That’s it! Fuck, that’s it, take it! Come on my cock!”
He loses all control. His hips piston into you, fast and desperate, chasing his own release. You wrap your arms and legs around him, holding him as close as possible, nails digging into the hard muscles of his back.
“I’m coming,” he grunts, his face buried in your neck. “I’m coming deep, baby. Gonna put another load in you. Gonna try and make it take. Fuck!”
He slams home and holds, shuddering. You feel the hot, pulsing rush, another flood joining the mess already inside you. He groans, long and low, as he empties himself, his whole body tense before he goes completely limp on top of you.
You both lie there, utterly spent. His weight is crushing, but you don’t want him to move. You can feel the wet, hot trickle already escaping you, proof of his relentless claiming.
He kisses you again, deep and slow, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of your mouth. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“Come back to me,” he begs, the hardness gone, leaving only a vulnerable, shattered plea. “Please. I love you. I missed you so much it fucking hurt.” He brushes a tear from your cheek you didn’t know had fallen. “Please come back to me. I love you.”
You look into his eyes, your body still thrumming from his, still full of him. “I love you too, Bucky.”
Eventually, your breathing evens out. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant tick of a clock somewhere in the mansion.
Bucky presses a kiss to your temple. “Let me take care of you.”
He slides out of bed, gloriously naked, tattoos shifting over muscle as he moves. You watch him disappear into the en suite bathroom—vast and decadent, all black marble and brushed gold fixtures, a massive soaking tub set beneath a skylight, heated floors, dual rainfall showerheads, a chandelier dripping crystals above the vanity. Your things are still there—your favorite candles lined up on the counter, your hair products exactly where you left them, even your silk robe hanging on the hook.
He starts the bath, the sound of running water soothing. Candles flicker to life one by one—vanilla and sandalwood, the scents you love. Steam curls into the air.
He comes back for you, scoops you up effortlessly even though your limbs feel like jelly. “Hair wash day?” he asks softly, carrying you to the bathroom.
You shake your head. “No.”
He nods, sets you gently on the wide edge of the tub, twists your hair up into a messy bun with practiced care, securing it with a clip he finds exactly where you always kept them.
The tub is huge—deep enough for both of you. He helps you in first, the water perfectly hot, scented with the lavender oil he knows you love. Then he slides in behind you, pulling you back against his chest. His arms band around you, careful of the bruises he left, gentle now in a way no one else ever sees.
You sink into him, eyes closing. The candles cast golden light over the marble, reflections dancing on the water.
“My stuff’s all still here,” you murmur.
“Didn’t want to move it,” he says quietly, lips against your shoulder. “Couldn’t. This is your home. Always has been. I kept everything exactly how you left it. Like if I touched it, you’d really be gone.”
Your heart aches. You turn your head, press a kiss to his jaw. “I’m here now.”
He holds you tighter.
He washes you slowly—big hands gentle with a soft cloth, soaping your shoulders, your back, down your arms. When he reaches between your thighs, he’s careful, clinical almost, but his touch still makes you shiver. He rinses you clean, presses kisses to every mark he left like he’s apologizing and worshiping at the same time.
After a long soak, the water cooling, he lifts you out, wraps you in a huge plush towel, dries you with the same tenderness. He helps you into your silk robe—soft ivory, monogrammed with your initials—then pulls on his own black one.
Back in bed, fresh sheets somehow already changed (he must have texted staff while you were in the bath), he pulls you into his arms. You curl into him, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
The room is dark now, only the city lights filtering through the massive windows.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair. “For making you feel like I couldn’t protect you. For every night you spent scared. I hate that I did that to you.”
You tilt your head up, meet his eyes. “I’m sorry I left. I was scared, but… I should have stayed. Should have trusted you.”
He shakes his head. “No. You were right to go if you didn’t feel safe. I should’ve fixed it sooner. Made you believe it.”
You reach up, cup his stubbled cheek. “We’re here now.”
His eyes search yours, vulnerable in a way only you ever see. “Will you come home? For good? Stay with me?”
You smile, soft and sure. “Yes, Bucky. I’m home.”
He kisses you then—slow, deep, full of every unspoken promise. When you part, he tucks you closer, leg thrown over yours, arm locked around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“I love you,” he murmurs against your forehead. “So fucking much.”
“I love you too.”
Wrapped in his arms, surrounded by the scent of him, the warmth of him, you both finally drift into the first peaceful sleep either of you has had in months.
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
