I will elaborate on this but imagine MobBucky has to kidnap you for whatever reason, ransom, to send a message, insert your preference here and he has you tied up in some room of his house. It’s all fine until he hears the scraping of the chair moving against the floor so he, Steve and Sam go over to make sure you’re not trying to escape.
He the closer he gets, the louder the scraping is, he bursts through the door.
“You better not try to lea-what-what the hell are you doing-
You momentarily stop your scooting to look and him and then back at your destination, only to start all over again. You were so close, you didn’t care if your hands were bound, you’d find a way-
“What’s she doing in there” Steve questioned, seeing Bucky run an exasperated hand over his face.
“She’s trying to pet the cat”
“What?”
Bucky stared at you as you finally reached where his very white, very spoiled fur baby was perched. He was so sure she’d try and swat at you, at the very least hiss, after all, she was as picky and grumpy as her daddy-
“Merp” she hopped down to nuzzle against your leg, bumping her head against you with a happy purr. “Meow-
“Alright, that’s enough, Alpine get over here”
The sassy feline gave him a hard stare before reluctantly pulling away and sauntering over, batting his leg before trotting off. He was supposed to be the leader of his gang and meanwhile his hostage was trying to pet his cat who just scolded him after being told to leave.
“Well thanks for that” You gave him an annoyed huff, obnoxiously scooting back to where the chair originally was.
“Brat” Bucky mumbled his breath, biting back the smile that almost made its way to his face.
smoke screens and sweet saccharine things mob boss! bucky x jazz singer! f! reader
+ a part two of sorts
★word count: 10.6k
★summary: bucky barnes, known mob boss, has been hiding a secret, just a little too long for even his own liking.
★CONTENT/WARNINGS: 18+, descriptions of violence, explicit content, MDNI, the mob does things guys, cursing, smut, breeding kink, bucky barnes is a munch, unprotected sex (i think that's everything?)
roe speaks: this is part of the bwa collab (go check out the other fics too or else), and i had so much fun writing it! (if you see the explicit john wick references LOOK AWAY/j) huge thanks to everyone in bwa for being so sweet, supportive and amazing, @chateaubarnes, @houseofhyde and @unificsation for the "lock in vcs" and check ins, @barnesonly and @juniebjonesin for proofreading for me (ly guys mwah mwah)! tagging my fellow bwa-thers supreme leader @superbassbuck and @its-in-the-woods , enjoy!
Drip.
Drip. Drip.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Drip.
The tears of angels, sorrowful in the heavens, did nothing to soothe his soul, as yet another day of work drained on. The wind howls past him as he drags yet another breath from his cigarette. Savouring the taste, he slowly exhales into the wind’s mournful howls, before flicking it away. He runs a hand through his hair, attempting to ease the tension, or stress stuck up there. It briefly dissipates, melting away with the pitter pattering all around him. Yet when he remembers what those idiots had just done, he finds himself raising the bat once more.
THWACK!
Birds scatter, quickly escaping the scene, and a lonely crow finds itself in the middle of the mess, sorrowfully cawing out in misery. Thick, sangria liquid pooled over rough gravel, hidden from the hustle and bustle of the city via an alleyway. He looked down at the crow, flailing about below him. He pulled back the bat, lowered by his side, coated in the very same liquid, each crack stained by pain and suffering. He hands it over to another, pulling off his gloves and handing them over too, sighing and tutting as he does,
“I’m gonna be fuckin’ late because of these thick idiots. Jesus Fuckin’ Christ, Steve, finish up f’me, yeah? Gotta fuckin’ meet Stark, too.”
He almost turns and leaves, but spins back on his heel one last time,
“You better fuckin’ think twice next time y’even consider stealin’, got that? Fuckin’ idiots, c’mon Sam.”
And then he turns to leave, with Sam holding his umbrella above him. After all, Bucky Barnes always got the last word, no matter what.
Bucky Barnes. The man, the myth, the legend. Rose through the ranks as an enforcer, only to take over the family business once his father passed away. Known, revered and feared, Bucky Barnes was cruel, harsh and unrelenting. Tales of his cruelty, of his punishments travelled through the streets of New York, establishing himself as the somewhat unofficial King of New York. A.K.A., someone not to be fucked with.
So you can imagine just how angry Mr. Barnes is, when he’s whisked away from his regular business, to deal with some absolute idiots, who had the bright-fuckin’-idea to fuckin’ steal from him. Fuckin’ pricks, the lot of ‘em.
He continues muttering and grumbling the entire way to the car, as he slips his rings back on. A sweet, modified pitch black Mustang, Boss 429, 1970. In the rain, each droplet rolls off smoothly, from the hood to the ground, pooling down into the sewer grates. Moody, low headlights barely announce themselves. The car itself, just like Bucky Barnes, is very much an imposing force of nature. The driver waits patiently for his acknowledgement - you didn’t just do things around Bucky Barnes. No, you waited patiently, for his instruction. He turns back to Sam, running a hand back through his hair again, eyebrows furrowing in anger once more,
“I mean really, what fuckin’ idiots, huh? What family were they, Wilson’s? He’s a wack-ass piece a’ shit anyway, but he wouldn’t go this fuckin’ far.”
Sam sighed, pinching his own nose before he continued. No matter how he answered - whether he told Bucky or not - he’d be mad. Better tell him, rather than wait for him to find out, huh?
“Nah, not Wade’s. These were.. that new one, ya know?”
“Fuckin’ Rumlow’s? That fuckin’ bitch. Not even three months in this city, huh?”
“...”
For a moment, they stood quiet, in the hellish downpour. Bucky huffed, leaning against the car. Sam continued to stand as he was, umbrella covering the two of them as Bucky continued his quiet grumblings. Sure, people walked past - but didn’t stop. One quick glare from either man was more than enough to halt questions. Eventually enough, Bucky stood back up, rolling his shoulder back into place as he smoothed down his suit.
He finally acknowledged the driver, allowing him to open the door and let the two of them in. Bucky first, as he relaxed into his seat, and Sam second sat opposite. Sam pours the two of them a dram of whiskey each, and the car roars to life, reversing out smoothly into the dark, moody streets of seedy New York. The very same moody low lights now announce the King’s own arrival, as the driver drives, ensuring the journey is as smooth as possible. One can only imagine what would happen if the driver hit a pothole, and James Buchanan Barnes threw whiskey on his suit. No, no, one shudders at even the thought of such a situation occurring.
By the time the two have finished strategising and conversing over the potential issues and situations that could occur in the next hour or so, the car slows down to a smooth stop, parked neatly into a parking bay. The driver steps out, waiting patiently for both men to finish their conversation and give him the signal. Inside, though,
“Yeah, I got that stone ya wanted. Why you’d go to lengths for a fuckin’ stone, is beyond me, boss. But here, give it a once over, yeah?”
Sam hands over a smooth velvet case. Bucky looks up at him, before slowly opening the box. Inside, a polished, perfectly cut, smooth 143 carat Ceylon Sapphire, straight from Sri Lanka, won in an auction. Bucky would’ve gone himself, but business kept him busy, forcing him to send Sam, naturally.
He carefully held the stone in his hands. How was it, that something so pure, beautiful and perfect sat so sweetly in the palm of his hands? His hands, stained with blood, pain and anguish, wrapped round the stone. He held it up to the car’s light, taking the time to appreciate each and every glimmering line, cut and shine, before carefully placing it back in the box. He throws an appreciative nod in Sam’s direction, before tucking the box away,
“Business calls, Sam. Let’s move.”
Sam raps his knuckles against the window, once, twice and thrice, before the driver opens the door, waiting. Sam steps out first, umbrella already opening as Bucky makes his way out. Bucky steps out slowly, adjusting his suit, tie and cuffs as he walks away from the car, leaving the driver to take care.
The rain hadn’t stopped.
In fact, it was almost like the rain had worsened, attempting to wash Bucky Barnes free of sin.
The umbrella acted as a shade, yes, but it also hid Bucky Barnes. God’s light didn’t shine in his corner of the world. Not here, not there, not anywhere. The bright neon sign of the restaurant shone bright tonight, the rain blooming round it,
“Chateau Barnes”
Sam stepped forward, opening the door for him. Bucky wiped his shoes along the small mat, before stepping inside. Warm, cozy, but still expensive enough to eat at your wallet. Not your wallet being spent though, is it? His eyes flit round, looking for the familiar goatee-sporting man.
And there he is, leaning back in a booth, waiting. Once the two’s eyes meet, the atmosphere suddenly shifts around them. Electricity, sharp and stinging, in the air as Bucky walks over, Sam falling in step with him.
“Barnes.”
“Stark.”
“And you brought Wilson, hmm?”
“Well. You brought Banner. Only fair I bring one of my own, hmm?”
“Tou-fuckin-che.”
The two sit down, eyes barely skimming over the menu. A waitress saunters over, taking their drink orders. An old fashioned for both Sam and Tony, a Manhattan for Bruce and a boulevardier for Bucky.
“And do you know what you’d like for food, or should I come back after drinks?”
The four exchange glances, before rattling off their usual orders. She walks away, orders in hand.
“Well. Now that food’s sorted, business?”
“Slow down, Stark. Let a man get his drink, before y’start throwin’ shit at me.”
“Alright, alright. Drinks first. So, horrible weather, hmm?”
“Tell me ‘bout it.”
Though from his tone, it is explicitly, undeniably clear, that he wants him to do anything but that. Stark holds his ability to.. irritate, or push buttons in high regard, though, and ignores Bucky’s dry, barely responsive tone.
“Fuckin’ downpour out there, pissin’ itself more than a grievin’ mother”
“Jesus Christ, Stark? Ever heard of a normal fuckin’ sentence? Fuckin’ hell… Just. Nothin’ ‘til we’ve got drinks, yeah? Fuck me..”
Tony only laughs in response, leaning back as the waitress returns, drinks in hand. She hands each drink over, and Bucky doesn’t miss the weird look she gives him. Not a bad look, more a ‘I’ve-seen-you-somewhere-haven’t-I’ look. Nothing out of the ordinary for him. Finally, he gets a chance to savour his drink. Sweeter than his usual drink, for sure, but still hitting each taste bud, as he swirls it round his mouth, savouring the taste. All four men take a minute to appreciate their drinks, before Tony starts,
“Fuckin’ Rumlow. Y’seen his bastards yet? Fuckin’ dickwads, lot of ‘em. Shit, Barnes. We gotta show ‘em who owns-”
“Yeah. One thing at a time, Stark. Rumlow’s bitches first, then we’ll sort everythin’ else, yeah?”
“Now, now Barnes. Y’not scared I want your area, hmm?”
His eyebrows furrowed again, his eyes darkening. Sam inhales and exhales deeply, beside him, almost as a reminder of where he is. A moment passes before he relaxes again, drinking his drink and leaning back too.
“My part? Stark… don’t forget I still collect ya debt. Don’t forget who fuckin’ runs this shit, hmm? Still, Rumlow’s a fuckin’ problem. And I’m willin’ to give some o’my men to help… sort him out, hmm?”
Tony grumbles slightly into his drink, about to retort when the waitress returns, with four very different plates. One for each man and his tastes. Tony gets a fancy steak and mash, and Sam gets a steak and chips. Bruce ordered a plate of truffle-topped tagliatelle, and Bucky receives a ravioli, filled with only the best lobster. The waitress pauses before leaving, nodding in Bucky’s direction,
“Chef sends his regards.”
He nods back, after taking a moment to appreciate the plate in front of him,
“And send ours back, hmm?”
She nods, and walks away again, leaving the four of them to talk business over their meals. Each man takes their time to appreciate the high-end meals placed in front of them. The effort, attention to detail, exquisite-ness of it all is not left unappreciated, as they strategise and plan exactly how to handle Rumlow and his.. situation.
“...So, I’ll send a few a’my men. They’ll be more than capable, capiche? An’ before y’say - yeah, I fuckin’ know y’got this. But I gotta deal with it too, y’know?”
Bucky sighs, running a hand over his face, and Tony sits, quietly contemplating. Bruce leans over, whispering into his ear, provoking Sam to lean over and whisper too,
Bucky nods back, attempting to hold back a smile, before making eye contact with Tony again.
“Okay, Barnes. Okay. But only because Rumlow’s a fuckin’ bitch of a problem, yeah?”
“Thanks for co-operatin’ - ‘preciate it, Stark.”
By the end of dinner, all four men pay for their meals, leaving a generous tip behind. The waitress comes by to pick up their dishes, and Bucky sends her back with a message,
“Compliments to our chef, hmm? Wonderful dinner, and wonderful drinks, as always.”
And with that, all four men depart off, to their separate cars. Sam and Bucky wait just long enough to see Tony and Bruce leave, before walking back to their car. Bucky resists the urge to light a cigarette, knowing he’d have to put it out sooner than he’d want. Instead, he brushes his hair back with his hand, shaking his head,
“Keep an eye on Stark, Sam. He’s got somethin’ planned. Don’ like it.”
Sam nods, and keeps the umbrella held, shielding Bucky from the Heavens.
“Fuckin’ Hell, the rain, huh? Can ya do somethin’ ‘bout the rain, miracle man? Can ya fuckin’ make it pretty f’me? Jesus fuckin’ Christ, all it fuckin’ does in this fuckin’ city is rain. I mean, really. Fuckin’ A, this stupid weather.”
Sam chuckles quietly, shaking his head. But he knows better than to respond. Bucky Barnes wasn’t the kinda man you casually joked with, nor was he a man to be taken lightly. They both stand around a while, the only noise being the pitter patter of rainfall, surrounding them. By now, the doom and gloom of dark grey clouds had disappeared, leaving behind a dark blue sky, almost rivalling the sweet sapphire in his pocket. Where the Moon should shine bright tonight, glowing and glittering amongst the blanket of stars, she had instead run off, chasing after the Sun, and his warmth, and glory. And left behind, in her place, was an empty void of blue, filled with drab clouds in between. Truly, the skies mourned her absence, with just how much they cried. He tutted, stamping away at an awkward piece of gravel under his shoe, before giving the signal back to the driver, who opened their doors once again. In they sat, leaning into the cool, grounding leather of the seats.
Only one last stop for the night.
There you were, sat in your dressing room, halfway through getting ready for the night. It’s a nice, comfortable room, draped with the finest silks and most extravagant lamps. You wear a long, somewhat scandalous, yet still classy, sanguine-red gown draped itself across your body, accentuated by a cheeky-high slit up your thigh. You adorned yourself with dazzling gemstones, set in gold, across your neck, arms, on your ears and a barely visible one round your right ankle.
Your make up was just about almost done for the night, with only some eyeliner and mascara left - which you were concentrating heavily on, pulling a face as you carefully lined your eyes. Your eyeshadow sparkled, in all the right places, and your blush bloomed just perfectly. Your lips were just soft enough, for the sweet, sweet songs of the night, and your hair was just tousled enough to be stage-worthy.
You slip on each ring, taking the time to appreciate how they looked on your hands, and to remember how each one got there. A small smile on your face, you move over to perfume.
Being a singer of your level, you had access to all the world's needs, riches and comforts, of course. It wasn't always like this, and you remember the days where you'd beg, day after day, for even one performance. But the Hotel Continental takes care of its own, and since joining, you've been kept well.
Yet you find yourself reaching for the very same perfume. From all those years ago. It didn't really matter up on stage, which perfume you wore. Only for you, and there's only one that you adore. An old bottle, name barely visible with how often you used it. And as always, it complemented your body oil, outfit and make up just perfectly. You spritz some on, before carefully placing it back down in your perfume cabinet.
The time. What time was it? You turn round to the clock behind you-
8:03 pm.
27 minutes. In 27 minutes, you'd be up on stage, as you would most nights, performing. In 27 minutes, you'd perhaps search the crowd for old familiar faces. In 27 minutes, it'd be just you, and the music. stage, and the music.
You finish getting ready, as Winston’s ‘25-minutes-left’ knock rattles on the door.
“Come in!”
He carefully opens the door, a cup of chamomile tea in one hand, and a warm hug from the other. The door shuts softly as he walks over, setting the cup down on your table. He opens his arms wide, and you immediately accept the warm hug. Winston’s always been so sweet, just like a father to you - your saving grace in the city that never sleeps. He gently pats your back, before pulling away, a hand softly smoothing your hair,
“You ready? The stage awaits you again, my dear.”
You sip your tea slowly, swirling the taste round in your mouth, nodding back,
“Yeah. Just.. the usual jitters, you know?”
“Really? All these years, and you still get nervous?”
He tutted and chuckled, earning a smile from you. He’s always been good to you, both him and the hotel. The Hotel Continental was a luxurious place, filled with everything the rich man needed. A grand lobby, an extravagant lounge, perfect room service - truly New York’s best of the best. Unbeknownst to most attendees, though, the Hotel Continental hid its own secrets, too.
For starters, any and all mob business was to be abandoned on the steps of the Continental. There is to be no business conducted inside, nor blood to be shed. After all, not the Continental was a safe haven for many a character, but the Continental had its own reputation to hold - the risk was too high.
Second, the Continental had its own.. connections to New York’s underground. Common knowledge, amongst those involved. But this, much like the first point, was never to be exposed. Exposing the Continental in such a manner would result in excommunication, from the High Table. And who would risk excommunication, in such a world?
Third, was the hotel’s own speakeasy. Not easily accessible, mind you, but the Hidden Note was well known, at least amongst New York’s worst. And within the Hidden Note, was the Continental’s final secret.
You.
New York’s best jazz singer, sought after by everyone and anyone, hidden away in a speakeasy.
You inhale deep and exhale fast, smoothing down the wrinkles on your dress, a well-disguised stress-managing mechanism,
“Yeah. All these years, and the nerves still get me, huh? It’ll be okay when we’re out there, though.”
It always is.
“Speaking of out there, I hear a certain.. someone has been.. attending more recently, hmm? You know anything about that?”
He shoots you a knowing glance as you busy yourself with switching your earrings, favouring the drops over the smaller studs,
“I have no idea who you’re on about, Winston! Besides, it’s all good for business, hmm?”
You wink back, before checking the time. How have 15 minutes passed so soon?
“Is that so, hmm? So a certain.. blue-eyed man hasn’t been frequenting our hotel, has he?”
Winston makes direct eye contact with your reflection in the mirror, and suddenly, it’s very hot in here. He shakes his head, placing an affectionate hand on your shoulder,
“Be careful, little dove, hmm? That’s all.”
You look back up at the clock, adorned with sweet cherubs, playing the lute and the harp, singing their sweet songs all up the marbled pillar, round the clock face itself - time always passed quicker before performances.
“Now, now. Don’t get all panicky on me - I need you at your best for tonight, hmm?”
Sighing, you take a moment to centre yourself, breathing in and out, closing your eyes. Any and all thoughts leave your brain as you focus on the task at hand: tonight’s performance. Opening your eyes again, you find Winston’s hand outstretched towards you,
“You’ll be alright. Shall we?”
You nod back in the mirror’s reflection, turning and taking his hand as he (the very same as he does every night you perform) leads you through the back, helping you sort out last minute touches and such. It’s less of a necessity, and more of a pre-show ritual, at this point. He offers you whiskey, and you refuse. He knows you’ll refuse, each time, but he also knows you need it to be the exact same, every night. He knows, and ensures your pre-show ritual continues as smoothly (or chaotically, depending on how you view it) as it did, the very first time you performed.
“Right. 3 minutes left now. It’s all you, hmm?”
“Gotcha. Same as always, Winston.”
And with that, Winston leaves you, presumably to go sit with the highest of the highest out in the audience. Your audience. Here, waiting just for you. Stood behind the curtain, you make your way up on stage, finally smoothing down your dress one last time. You crack your knuckles, adjust your mic and mentally prepare for the night to begin. You can hear Winston out there, introducing you,
“And now, for New York’s best kept secret, our very own Siren of The Night, here at The Hotel Continental’s own, Hidden Note!”
Winston walks off the front of the stage, as the curtain slowly parts, revealing you, and the musicians behind you. A warm light hits you, and you smile, your jewels dazzling round, bouncing off the walls. A round of applause fills the room, as all eyes land on you. You take a minute to look around the room, seeing newer faces (is that the CEO of that one really big record label? Strange.. he looks awfully familiar), and old ones too.
But there’s only ever one pair of eyes you seek out.
And there they are, fixated on you.
You close your eyes, as the band behind you starts to play. Old hits, and some new ones too, smoothly playing behind you. You sway with each note, and by the time you begin singing, the audience is entirely enchanted, by the sweet notes dancing around them. Your voice, smoother than honey, builds a sweet tension, with each note climbing above the other. And when it snaps, all eyes are on you.
Each song holds emotion, intensity and passion, as you put in your all into every note. Small movements across the stage become dramatic flairs, here and there, and your nerves easily dissipate into a raw confidence. Your dress billows out, flowy and following each and every movement. Even the light follows you round the stage, as each movement casts a different pattern across the walls of the room.
The thrill of the performance only pushes you, as you reach the very climax of your performance, with a note that holds each and every audience-members eyes and attention. It’s long, powerful and intense, and only speaks to just how strong a singer you are.
Eventually, you lower your arms, finishing your performance the same as always, with a sweet bow, smile and a wave. You scan the crowd again, searching for those familiar cloudy blue eyes, once more.
They’re not there.
You collect yourself, smiling and waving once more, bowing with the band, before you head back off-stage, back into your dressing room, where you sit, quiet.
Thinking.
Meanwhile, Bucky Barnes was pissed.
You see, he’d been sat, nicely, calmly, in his seat. Enjoying the performance. Winston, owner of the Hotel Continental, sat with him, Sam, and some other fucking chump. But he’d been calm. For the sake of the rules, at the very least. And it’d started out fine. He made the regular small talk he needed to. Winston talked to him about regular, normal things. The weather, how it manages to piss it down, every, fucking, day. How business was going, how family was. Winston was like that. Good, kind. Normal. He is the godfather of the underworld here for a reason, after all. Bucky (entirely unwillingly) had found out the idiot’s name was Barry. Who the fuck is Barry, anyway? Who the fuck cares? But he’d been nice, and calm, and normal anyway. Turns out, this was Barry’s first time here (again. Who the fuck cares?). Some rich-prick’s son-in-law, and he just had to see what the Hidden Note was hiding away, in its exclusive clutches.
And Winston? He knew Bucky. He knew Bucky, and he knew exactly how he’d handle a bitch like Barry. And Bucky knew exactly what Winston was doing, as the older gentleman looked back at him with a look that could only be conveyed as saying ‘Not-On-Continental-Property’. Sam stifled a small laugh behind a cough, and Bucky rolled his eyes to the side, not wanting to interrupt the performance.
So when Barry, the bitch, piped up with a,
“I’ve heard better than this fuckin’ shit! I mean c’mon? The fuck is this?”
Bucky Barnes was beyond pissed.
And when Winston looked over with a warning glance, once more in his direction, all he could do is grit his teeth and nod (and pray that somehow, somewhere, Barry, the bitch, would leave. Let him get his hands on him. Somehow.), unwilling to cause a scene in Winston’s kind hospitality.
So when Barry (the Bitch) made a huge fuss, specifically toward’s the end of your performance, of needing a smoke, Bucky Barnes was more than happy to oblige. Especially, when Winston offered over one of his own cigars for him. Picture, if you will, the image of bright, neon green lights, blinking around in his brain.
Bucky leads him outside, into an alley just behind the hotel. Explicitly not Continental property. On his way out though, he sneaks a glance at you. At how gorgeously each and every light shines off you. At how you, and only you, shine brighter than any diamond, ruby and sapphire. At how you smoothly move round the stage, your sweet voice stunning and fascinating everyone, and everything that dared even breathe in a presence as angelic as yours, and grumbles about missing it under his breath,
“Yeah. This fuckin’ way.”
Taking twists and turns, past the Continental’s.. shadier business, (including a room of slightly dodgy.. accountants, operating an old switchboard) they finally make it outside. Sure, the hotel has its own little smoking room. But that’s hotel-owned property. Bucky Barnes can’t beat the shit out of Barry (the Bitch) on hotel-owned property. And Barry (the Bitch) has no fucking idea what’s about to happen.
Stepping outside, the rain has not stopped, not at all. It’s almost asking him to reconsider - is this really a good idea? But he cares not for what the heavens think. Nor the winds, as they scream in an attempt to warn the other man. And he most definitely could care less for the little birds in the air, cawing and crying as they fly past. In the madness of the rain, he finds himself getting angrier by the minute, only for the Bitch himself to start speaking too,
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, her fuckin’ voice droned on, huh? I mean, a guy comes all this fuckin’ way, for some good fuckin’ shit, only to sit through that?”
His eye twitches slightly as he briefly considers the gloves. But then, the sting of the rings won’t quite hit him the same, so he puts them away, and waits patiently for the idiot to turn around. It’s a sign, then, from the heavens themselves, or some devil, somewhere, that out of the corner of his eye, is a metal pipe.
A metal fuckin’ pipe.
It’s practically Christmas Day, as Bucky Barnes’ eyes light up!
Seriously, if you had seen him right here, right now, you’d presume he’d just won the fuckin’ lottery!
But no. A metal. Fuckin’. Pipe.
He holds the metal pip in his hands, feeling the rain trickle off, over his palms. Tossing it lightly, he feels its weight, completely ignoring whatever fuckshit Barry (the Bitch) had to say.
“-back in Gotha-”
THWACK!
He falls to the ground, blood quickly pooling round his head, mixing with the rain. Bucky drops the bat, grabbing his head in one hand, and winding up with a punch from the other. Each punch that connects is only accentuated by the tears of heavenly bodies, slapping the man’s bleeding face. Each ring connects, scrapes and pulls at his skin, as bloody bits dribble down. But Bucky sees not blood, nor does he see him. He sees rage, sheer, unadulterated rage, as he continues to punch wildly. A fire rages within him, as he unleashes a wild, flurry of blows upon this man. Each punch burns more and more, and the rain only worsens it, the sting of each punch sizzling with each harsh droplet, off like smoke and ash from a burning fire.
Eventually though, Bucky stands back up. His own hands stained with the blood of an imbecile, the fire still rages, as he spits back at him, finally lighting up Winston’s cigar. The bright orange of the lit cigar lights up his face briefly, in the muddy, blue-grey rain. It’s a somewhat peaceful moment, in the hellish landscape of this godforsaken city.
He pauses to take a nice, long drag of the cigar, enjoying the flavour as he puffs out a shape into the rain. He watches as it floats out, before dispersing into the tears of Heaven itself, sighing as he did,
“You fuckin’ idiot. You fuuuuuuckin’, idiot! Y’come to the Hotel Cont’nental. The Ho-Tel-Fuckin’-Con-Tinen-Tal. Ya fuckin’ dog. Y’eat our food. Y’sit with us, like ya belong here. Ya fuckin’ don’t! And y’have the fuckin’ nerve to cuss her out? Fuckin’ dickbag. Let this be ya fuckin’ lesson, ya ragin’ sack a’shit!”
He kicks him, the final wisp of fire rushing through his foot as it connects with his face, and finishes off by spitting back at him again, as the other man mumbles and grumbles through a face full of blood.
Bucky tosses the old metal pipe into some bins, conveniently located to the very side of the door they left from. Now, the bins themselves were Continental property - but the rules never mentioned disposing of used tools.
He stood in the rain briefly, brushing his hair back once more before he walked back inside, leaving the fool outside. Someone would check him. Eventually. Probably. Maybe. Perhaps.
Then again - that’s not Bucky Fucking Barnes’ problem, is it?
Walking back through the shady corridors of the Hotel Continental, he pauses at the administrative office, producing a gold drachma from his pocket. Tossing it over the desk, he leans over, whispering quietly,
“I’m orderin’ a hit.”
The lady sat behind the desk barely looks up from her typewriter, puffing out a small cloud of smoke to the left,
“Name?”
“Brock Rumlow.”
She continues typing away, and he waits. He knows how this game works.
“Reward?”
“2.5. Mill.”
“Very well, Mr Barnes.”
He raps his knuckles on the desk, nodding and turning away. As he walks off, he can just about hear her turning to other employees, placing the “hit” on Rumlow. He pauses, turning back quickly,
“Actually - is he available? Wick. Family friend and all, you know how it is.”
She sighs, and nods, retyping up the instructions,
“AMEND: Hit to be offered to Mr Wick first. If not Mr Wick, then the High Table decides. Does that work for you, Mr Barnes?”
“Yes. Perfect, thank you.”
“Enjoy your stay, sir.”
Speaking of, he had one very important, final meeting to get to.
Let’s hope he wasn’t too late, hmm?
Back amongst the expensive, yet lonely, decor of your dressing room, you sat curled up on the mockingly large bed, teasing your unchosen solitude. The tea, that Winston had brought over earlier, remained half-drank, cold and dull.
And it wasn’t really long before a knock came by your door. But not the knock you had desperately waited for.
“Oh, little dove? It’s just me, thought I’d quickly come by, may I?”
Winston. Of all the times your dear godfather had to appear, now really wasn’t the best time, was it.
Not when you were busy sulking.
Still, you rise from your.. depressing form, and open the door ever so slightly. Outside, stands Godfather Winston, with a velvet pouch in one hand. He raises his eyebrows in concern, at your somewhat despondent state, and you sigh and conjure up a small smile for him. You notice now, he’s hidden a hand behind his back, and slowly raises it forward,
“Oh, a blueberry muffin! Ohhhh, that’s just what I needed tonight!”
“Still the same little dove, hmm? Well, I think this’ll be me for the night, hmm? You’ll be back in day after tomorrow - take the day for yourself.”
You take the muffin, gratefully, and wave him off. And now you’re left again, all alone, with a blueberry muffin and cold, chamomile tea. Slumping into a corner, you slowly chew through the muffin. It’s.. strangely comforting, and each bite warms your heart ever so slightly more.
So when a second knock comes at your door, the more familiar pattern of four, you find yourself mumbling a soft,
“Come in, if you like.”
He pushes the door open, and takes note of your smaller form, sat in a corner. Internally, he makes a face, and sighs. Ahhh, Bucky Barnes has really done it this time, hasn’t he?
He makes his way over, joining you in the corner. You turn your head (petty, huh?) away from him, huffing quietly. He exhales softly, before whispering,
“Hey, doll.”
It’s soft, sweet and reverent. Nothing like he was before. No, this wasn’t the Bucky Barnes the world knew. This was the sweet, gentle ‘James’, that only you knew. Your James. The side he reserved, only for you. He reaches out to your hand, and you frown. You know he can’t see it, but you also know he can feel it, through how you shift slightly. He tries again, his heart melting with just how unresponsive you are to him. And he knows exactly what caused it, too. It doesn’t matter why or what caused him to leave - he should’ve stayed, and waited.
But how does he explain, that he could not bear to sit through that idiot’s each and every stupid word? Especially, specifically when he spoke of you, in such a manner?
He gulps back his guilt, and reaches for your hand. This time, you feel you’ve been petty enough, and let him hold it. His rough, calloused hands run over your smooth, pretty ones. He pulls you in closer, his other hand reaching for your face, softly turning you in, towards him. You sigh, and press your forehead to his, letting him pull you by the waist now, closer in. As you do, he exhales a breath he didn’t even know he had held, shaky and vulnerable,
“Hey honey. Missed ya.”
His every word comes through mumbly and quiet. To anyone else, it might’ve sounded like shame, or fear, but you know this voice well. It’s reserved, just for you, his soft, sweet voice, dripping in your ears. You push your face forwards, your nose brushing past his. His lips meet your cheek, dropping down to your lips with a smile,
“Take it you missed me too, huh?”
You shuffle your body forwards again, and practically fall into his arms. He pulls you into his lap, properly this time, with your legs swung together over his left, and his arms supporting you up against him. He leans you away briefly, just enough to rake his eyes over you. The dress, hugging you tight and perfect, falls just short of exposing you. And matching red gloves tuck under the edges of your ‘off-the-shoulder’ sleeve, wrapping round your hands. Your dress flows out, like a smooth river of red, over his legs, and around you. He pulls you in again, pressing his lips up against your neck, and kissing up to your ear,
“I take you liked the dress? I know I do.”
You hum in response, and sigh as his lips slowly wander round your neck, pressing little marks here and there, like new jewellery,
“James..”
“Yes, dear?”
“Still mad, by the way”
You feel his eyebrows furrowing as he mulls over your words, sighing into the crook of your neck. He readjusts you, now straddling him, and slowly lowers you down, fixing your dress around you. His hand still supports you, as though you were fragile, and even the lightest touch could break you,
“Well. However will I make this up to you, hmm?”
You make a face, whining and pulling him closer. He chuckles, shuffling off his blazer, and pressing himself closer to you, unable to bear the thought of being separated from you. He inhales deep, memorising your scent once more.
“You still use that same perfume? Pretty girl.. I bought you so many others..”
“But that’s still the first one you bought, my love.”
You play with his hair, soft fingers dancing through his scalp as he tuts softly. Was he in your embrace, or you in his? Who knows? Your other hand trickles up and down his back, soothingly as he remains still, unmoving but for his slowed breathing.
If anyone were to see this sight - the most feared man, in all of New York, lying in the most sought after jazz singer’s arms, muttering sweet nothings into her neck? One can only imagine the scandal, the gossip, the floundering arms and legs!
But none of that mattered, at this moment. All that really mattered was Bucky, and you, tangled up in the low, warm light emanating round the room. The singular, vintage lamp (a 2-month anniversary gift, Bucky had insisted upon), working overtime as it provided the softest, most perfect light for this moment. He pulled back briefly, to appreciate you once more. Where once, the harsh stage-light had you shining, glittering and bright, now, the softer, warmer light radiated off you, softening your sweet gaze on him.
He had truly no choice but to bask in your heavenly glow, a sweet angel, in his arms.
Which reminded him, of his hands. Still stained with the very same sanguine colour wrapped around your body, still reminding him of his sins. How was it, that something so pure, beautiful and perfect sat so sweetly in the palm of his hands? How was it, then, that you wanted him? All these years, you had been his, and only his. The Siren of The Night, yet the only one privy to your sweet voice was him, and him alone.
He leaned further back, and you whined again, begging him closer. He leaned forwards, only to press a sweet kiss to your forehead, before hooking his arms under you, lifting you up. You moan softly, only for his ears, and if someone were to stop, just outside the East side of the Hotel Continental, and look up to the third floor, perhaps they’d see just a glimmer of red, brushed up into a sweet, tender embrace, as the rain rejoiced, just outside the window.
And he slowly walks over to your bed, your soft, silken sheets awaiting the weight of two intertwined souls. Each step, accompanied with another sweet kiss, a nibble here and there, a sweetened gasp in the air. He lowers your body onto soft sheets, and slowly climbs over you, nuzzling his nose against yours, oh so lovingly.
Who would’ve thought James Buchanan Barnes was such a lover boy?
The harsh contrast between the thundering rain outside, cold and unforgiving, and the sweet warmth of inside is not lost to either of you, as he continues to trail his hands along your body, barely tickling your sides. You respond with sighs of content, and relax briefly, before lifting your head, making direct contact with his stormy blue eyes, littered with droplets of rain, hailing down into your own eyes. It seems he’s gotten your.. meaning, as he lifts himself upwards, hands trailing round the back of your dress, eagerly searching for the sweet strings of fate themself. And when his cool, cold hands touch your warm, soft back, you can’t help but gasp. He presses another kiss to your neck, in an attempt to soothe the suddenness of it all, and takes the time to pull each string out. Your dress begins to fall but he holds it up himself, leaning you back on your pillows.
He takes your right hand first, slowly slipping the glove off. He kisses each finger, before gently placing the glove on your bedside table. This was his ritual. He takes your left hand next, mirroring the right. He pauses on your ring finger, kissing the ring that had blessed your hand two years ago.
“My love, mine.”
“Just as you are mine, James.”
“Always.”
He sits back up, ushering you to lay down. Grabbing a pillow, he shuffles it under your hips, readjusting you the way he knows you like it. You wiggle your hips slightly, and his hand rests on your waist as he pulls himself over you, again.
Except, he doesn’t quite realise how close to your face he is, and only really acknowledges it when he finds himself staring back at your eyes,
“Oh. Hi, you.”
“Hi, you, too.”
“Horrible weather today, hmm, love?”
You can’t help but to giggle and push your head against his, lovingly. Always lovingly. How he finds a way to make you giggle and laugh, each and every time, you still have no clue. He uses the opportunity to lift you up, finally peeling the dress away from you. With each new inch revealed, Bucky’s eyes light up, as though he was unwrapping his gift on Christmas Day (Note to Self: Perhaps wrapping yourself up for him on Christmas might be a good present…). He presses his lips against your collarbone, before lowering himself further down your chest, across your stomach and finally resting his head just above your core.
You’ve laid back down, allowing yourself to become comfortable once more. And he’s fully removed the dress at this point, his hands circling patterns across your stomach. Just as you close your eyes, his sweet kisses lulling you to sleep, he nips at your hip, earning a shocked yelp and grasping of his hair from you,
“Sorry, my love.. couldn’t help it..”
You sigh, releasing his hair again. He lifts his head back up and frowns. You mirror his frown, tilting your head sideways,
“What’s wrong, Jamie?”
“...”
“James?”
“My love, you’re not… wait..”
He stands up, crossing the room with ease. You curl up, immediately missing the warmth of your oh, so sweet husband laying across you, and wait patiently. Whatever he had in mind would be worth it, after all. He unlatched your jewellery cabinet, searching through various drawers, organisers, draping necklaces over his fingers, anklets and bracelets and bangles gently held in his metal hand. He returns, not without relatching the cabinet, and begins with the bracelets and bangles.
Adorning you.
Adoring you.
Because at the core of it all, below everything, that was what James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes did.
Each bracelet and bangle gliding onto your wrists sweetly and smoothly. Each one accompanied by an adoring kiss, pressed into your wrist and sweet murmurs. Next, the necklaces. Each one, a differing length, layered across your chest. He loops each one round, and presses a kiss at the apex of each necklace, lowering down to your sternum. He clasps each one with care, brushing your hair away, ensuring it never traps in the intricate mechanisms.
And finally, your anklets. He lifts your right ankle, brushing his lips past the anklet he had gifted you, when the two of you started dating five years ago. A smile graces his face, as he lifts another, draping it over, and carefully clasping it, sealed with a kiss. He repeats this with your left ankle, before reaching over to kiss your lips once more,
“There. Pretty, gorgeous and ready f’me now, my love.”
He was always careful with you, and around you. Where he could care less how he spoke with quite literally, anyone else, he was always careful with you. Even in his words, he put effort to ensure you truly got the best of him, always. His hand drops across your face slowly, pulling you in for another sweet kiss.
And each sweet kiss is soft, gentle and loving. You can feel him holding back (though you know he won’t, not for much longer) as he gently guides your head into place, both of your lips moving with sweet harmonies. As he moves you back, into his lap, each piece of jewellery now adorning your form rhymes and jingles. Yet he never pulls away from the kiss, only pushing deeper.
His tongue brushes your lips. Now, if you told anyone that had happened, naturally they’d have seen this as his need for you. A level of possessiveness over you, which was only to be expected from a mob boss. But you know better, as his tongue gently pushes over your lips, he begs. He begs to be let in. And you part your lips, ever so slightly, in time with his. Just enough for him to slip in.
Anyone else would expect a horrible battle for dominance, greed and lust.
Instead, he slowly explores your mouth, inhaling and exhaling through his nose as he does. His tongue softly travels over each tooth, before kissing the roof of your mouth as he pulls back. The sweet string of honey, dripping from either of your lips as he doesn’t dare to breathe in your angelic presence, dribbles down, leaving a sweet trail for him, across your chest. His tongue immediately darts down, refusing to even let a single drop go to waste. He slowly drags his tongue back up, past each necklace, over your neck, and leaving one chaste kiss on your lips.
“Perfect. My sweet, perfect angel. My everything, and anything.”
You hum in response and he moves backwards. You know what’s next, lying down in preparation. He pulls your knees up in preparation, nuzzling your inner left thigh with a sweet kiss. He presses another kiss to your lacy, red panties, matched to your dress. He pauses, quickly removing his rings and tucking them in your bedside drawer. He returns, and drags his finger along your wet core,
“Look at you, wet and ready, all f’me?”
“Always you, my love, always you..”
He hooks a finger under the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down and off. Placing them with your discarded gloves, he slowly licks a sweet stripe up, pausing at your sweet spot, and circles it with his tongue. Out of sheer need, hunger and want, your back arches, and you throw your head back, mouth agape. Each movement he makes causes more and more heat to pool in your core.
Bucky seizes the opportunity, plunging his tongue between your folds. Instinctively, your thighs threaten to shut round him, trap him and hold him there. But his arms hold either thigh pinned down, forcing you to feel each and every stroke as Bucky absolutely devours you, as a man starved, hungry and needy. Each stroke accompanied with your sweet, sweet notes, harmoniously bouncing off the walls of the room. He quickens his pace, here and there, and slows as you come closer and closer, teasing you, pushing you. You whine and make a face, and he complies, quickening once more.
“B-Buck… Jamie…. M'close!!"
He responds with a sweet hum, which only serves to push you over the edge. The metaphorical spring in your core coils tighter and tighter until it snaps, and you buck upwards. He continues to hold you down, his tongue still darting round your folds. Eventually, he lets go of your thighs (finally), and you immediately wrap round his head, as he continues on, through your release.
There’s a sudden revelation you have, as you work on your comedown, of the situation you’re in. The idea of Bucky Barnes, mob boss, between your thighs. You absent mindedly fiddle with your wedding ring, your grasp on the soft sheets slowly loosening. Outside, the rain continues pelting down with a sense of vengeance, disguising your sweet sins from the horrors of the world surrounding you. It’s bittersweet, how two individuals tangled in the grimy, filthy underworld find themselves sweetly, honestly and truly in love with each other.
It’s almost poetic.
And when he’s done, and had his fill, he taps your thigh, snapping you out of your lost trance, and prompting you to finally set him free. As you do, a sorrowful emptiness in your core mourns his loss as he pulls back, licking his lips and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You drink in the sight, of Bucky Barnes, beard, mouth and face covered in your sweetened honey. You sigh, the sound sweetly ringing in his ears, and his hand finds your face once more, slowly stroking your cheek.
For a brief moment, the two of you remain like this, soft and sweet, with the only sounds being the rain, still thundering outside.
He pulls you forward and kisses your lips sweetly, and your tongue pushes through his lips, exploring his mouth, this time. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and find yourself moaning at the taste, which is only followed by his own sweet moans, tugging on your tongue.
As he pulls away, his lips lower down to your chest, wrapping round one nipple and pulling, twisting, sucking and loving, teasingly. You whine and shake your head, softly calling out his name as his metal hand reaches up for your other one, playing around in his hand. The cool touch against your warm, soft skin only excites you more and more, and he switches over, attentive to your every need. His other hand wraps behind you, pulling you closer to him as he takes care of you.
And when he’s done, he follows the trail of stones up your chest, kissing the middle of each and every necklace again. He pauses at your neck, nibbling at where it curves, and becomes your shoulder. You attempt to softly push him back, and he shakes his head, tightening his hold on you. Tight as his grip may be, he never hurt, nor harmed you. He could never imagine causing pain to you, let alone actually doing it,
“Sweet girl, what’re you doin’?”
“Jus’ wanna take care of you too, y’know?”
“No, no, I’m makin’ it up to ya. C’mere, we’re celebratin’ early this year..”
“Mhm, and? What’s wrong with celebratin’ early, hmm? Or d’ya not wanna..?”
You shake your head, and he finally starts to strip, just for you. Shirt and tie first, and he maintains full eye contact with you the entire way. He even pauses to let you trail your hands across his torso, up his chest, teasing his nipples gently. His belt next, clanking onto the ground beside your bed, slacks joining it. And finally, you reach forward, tracing his outline through his briefs. He attempts to stifle back a groan, only for your perfectly acrylic nails to begin pulling them down - releasing a somewhat needy noise from the back of his throat.
You giggle, as he kicks off his briefs, and he pulls one of your legs over his, around his back. You follow along with your other leg, wrapping round his back and locking him in place - not that he’d want anything different.
He lowers you back, allowing you to get comfortable again, as he lines himself up, holding you by the waist. He rubs small circles into your waist, slowly pushing in, past your tight walls, as he keeps eye contact with you, the entire time. With each passing inch, he kisses your neck, chest, your ear, your cheek, your other cheek and finally, as he bottoms out, briefly whimpering as he leans in to kiss your lips, holding you, suppressing sweet moans with his tongue. He pulls away again, slowly pushing in, and then out, your walls always ready for him. You feel every push and pull past your folds, and he lowers a hand to your sweet nub, rubbing soft circles. You whine, and moan, and arch your back, and each time he pushes in, he kisses you, slow and sweet.
Love.
That’s what this was.
Pure, unadulterated, sheer love.
He quickens his pace, his thick girth being just perfect to satiate your each and every needy whine, and your perfect nails dig into his back, leaving loving marks across his skin. His own fingers dig into your waist slightly, with enough strength to bruise. The feeling has you even more excited, heat only increasing as his rough fingers bruise your hips.
And the gentle, amber light bounces off each item of jewellery, still adorning you, bouncing round the room with a soft, warm glow. Each movement made causes a sweet jingle of noise, matched by your own sweet moans, his gentle groans and the constant downpour outside. It’s lewd, sweet and soft, all at the same time, and it’s everything you’ve missed.
As you both approach your climax, he angles himself just right, hitting each and every angle just perfectly. He pulls your hips further down, and you find yourself a sweet, babbling mess. He continues through your sweet release, as your hands and legs weaken slightly, and holds you up, flush to his body as he joins you, ropes and loads filling your insides. And even when he’s done, he pushes down with his hand on your belly, feeling exactly where you wrapped round him,
“There we are, pretty girl. Feel that? Feels good, hmm?”
In your somewhat sweet, yet fucked out state, all you can offer in response is a soft hum. He presses his forehead against yours, grounding you as you both even your breathing once more. Eventually enough, he attempts to pull out, and you whine again, pulling your arms around the back of his head.
“Stay..? Gotta make it stick… lover boy..”
He sighs happily, unable to ever deny his sweet girl, and remains just a little longer. Both of your hands roll up and down each other’s bodies, and before long, he’s switching positions. He pulls out softly, and you whine in his ear as he moves you both around,
“Shhh, pretty girl, y’wanna make it stick? Only one way, baby..”
-manhandling you sweetly, into his arms. He stands up, with you, sitting back on the floor, in front of your long, floor length mirror. He’s behind you, now, with you in his lap, your legs swung over his left arm. The air hits your folds, now exposed to the air, and you gasp softly as he tilts back you head, kissing you sweetly. Once again, his hand finds your folds, playing around as he lifts you higher,
“Ready, sweet thing?”
You nod feverently from need, and want and desperation, and he chuckles in response, as he pushes up into you. The new position only feels better, as he kisses your walls, filling you fully as he does. Instinctively, you pull up, and he keeps you pulled down, eyes focused on your own in the reflection of the mirror,
“See that, pretty girl? Takin’ me s’well… made jus’ f’me.. an’ I’m made jus’f’you.. feel s’good baby..”
His eyes are laser focused on where the two of you join, where you become one together. Yours, attempt to meet his, or follow his, but with just how sweet he feels in you, your focus is slightly lost.
Each push up into you is joined by a sweet kiss to your shoulder, and a soft moan or groan from either of you. As he quickens his pace once again, he throws his head back, mouth agape as unrestrained moans and gentle whimpers, only for you, stutter out of his throat. In response, you gasp and moan and whine and drag your hands and nails across the arm holding you in place. His other arm holds your stomach, rolling circles into your skin. As you both chase your high together, he pushes his face into your shoulder, and each sound he makes vibrates through your skin, as shivers trickle down your spine.
He fastens his pace, slamming up into you. Despite that, it’s not harsh, or painful, and you attempt to move and meet his pace. His lips move to your ears, whispering sweet nothings and occasionally nibbling at your skin, illiciting sweeter noises from your throat. Soon enough, your clenching your walls around him, and he’s pushing through your tight walls, painting all over them.
And as the two of you sweetly climax once more, he slows his pace, before finally coming to a stop, still entirely buried in you. He stays there, waiting for the two of you to relax again, testing the waters by slowly moving (only for you to clench again, to which he responds with sweetly nuzzling his nose into your neck). Ten slow, sweetened and very well appreciated minutes pass, as he rakes his eyes over your soft body, joined with his so perfectly, before very, very slowly pulling out. Suddenly empty, you sigh, and he presses another kiss to your forehead, making his way over to run a bath for the two of you.
He finds your batch of rose petals, bath salts and bath oils, combining them just perfectly in the bathwater, before making his way back to you.
“Bath’s almost full, pretty girl. I’ll carry you over, wait.”
He hooks both arms under you, lifting with practiced ease, before lowering you carefully into your marble tub and settling in behind you. You tip your head back onto his chest, humming old songs and lying comfortably in your safe space as he wraps his arms round your waist. He traces small patterns into your skin, muttering sweet nothings into your ears before dropping his head onto your shoulder. It’s mushy, sweet and entirely unlike the persona he puts on.
The fire from before finally quietens down, each softening ember glowering gently, calmly basking in your warm presence.
“I suppose you’ve made up for your.. mistake.”
You can feel his smile, pressing into your shoulder as he muffled a response, causing you to turn ever so slightly,
“What was that, Buckaroo?”
“Ohhhh.. baby no… Y’killin’ me with that! Buckaroo? Really?”
He shakes his head, with that sweet, sweet smile you fell in love with, all those years ago. You sigh and smile back, raising a hand to push his hair out of his face,
“I said, I’m awful glad. Could’n’ imagine my beautiful girl mad at me.”
You swoon, his words never failing to warm you, and he pulls you back in, brushing your oh, so swollen lips for one last, deep, loving kiss.
A few hours have passed since your and Bucky’s… rendezvous. He’s helped you redress, into a soft, expensive, silk robe, and fed you grapes as you both lazed across your bed. He’s called for the driver, who waits patiently in the still pulsing rain, still plundering down outside, and quietly leads you through the hotel. You’ve passed Winston, who pauses to ask the two of you about your sweet one year old, who waits at home, nesting softly in Sam’s arms. He’s mentioned coming by on the weekend (after all - who’s to stop her great Godfather from spoiling her?) and you’ve nodded sweetly, before making your way out. He hasn’t commented on the glow on your face, nor the slightly out of place grin on Bucky’s, but a man like Winston knows better.
Stepping out, Bucky grabs a complementary umbrella for you, leading you over to the car. The driver immediately opens the door for you, waiting for you to sit in and get comfortable, before moving around to open the door for Bucky too.
Bucky’s hand naturally finds your thigh, squeezing it softly,
“My love, you are truly the best thing to have ever happened to me.”
Your hand trails over his, and you lean into his warmth, as the driver finally drives out, taking the two of you back home. He looks over at you, his eyes melting as they meet yours. Truly, Bucky Barnes was the moon, to your bright, warm sun. And he was more than happy, chasing his sweet sun, catching your sweet embrace in his arms. And you, were more than happy, falling into his grounding, soft arms. Perhaps, you were the only thing, warming the stone, cold heart of the… notoriously stone cold mob boss.
The sun.. to his moon.. yeah, he liked the sound of that.
Sure, the winds and the rains and numerous heavenly bodies may weep and mourn and attempt to wash away his sins, to convince him to turn, to change his ways. They may howl, day after day, begging he find his soul. But his soul was never his.
And what is the will of the Heavens in comparison to his sweet, darling wife?
For Bucky Barnes was a mob boss second, but a devoted, loving husband first.
Forever, and always.
post credits
The car finally pulls up to a comfortable, somewhat secluded area, stopping outside large gates. Bucky leans out, holding his hands up in a sign, and the gates open slowly. As he leans back in, he pulls you slowly over his lap again, careful as ever. Now, you had fallen asleep on the way home, the warmth of his shoulder serving as a perfect pillow for your sweet face.
The car slows even more, rolling along to the front door. Bucky tosses two gold coins into the front’s cup holders. The driver lowers his hat, tipping it in respect, and waits patiently. Another man walks up to the door, and Bucky nods, letting him open the door. Bucky steps out, with you asleep, in his arms. He walks up the steps of your shared, grandiose, albeit secluded, home, and the same man who opened your car door, returns to open the front door.
Sweet cinnamon and pine waft past his nose, as the dimmed lights of the home softly welcome you both home. From the living room, he can hear Sam reading yet another story to your oh, so eager little one, still up and awake, and very much unwilling to sleep. He sets you down on a couch, before sliding next to Sam, and scooping her up into his arms,
“Hey there princess - miss us?”
In response, she babbles back, dropping what might sound almost like words, here and there. Sam stands up, cracking his back as he does, and nods over to you,
“Have fun?”
Bucky pulls your daughter to his chest, nodding back,
“Yeah. See y’in two days, hmm?”
“Copy that, boss. Happy anniversary.”
With that, Sam makes his way out of the humble mansion, likely on his way home. Bucky settles next to you, and you instinctively cuddle against him. He opens up his left arm, letting you nuzzle up onto his chest, and with the other arm, guides your daughter to rest just opposite you. She reaches out to your face inquisitively, and Bucky gently guides her hands into his, redirecting her attention to ensure you could sleep.
With Bucky’s tender hands, and your soothing form, her eyes start drooping. He catches this, humming sweet lullabies, sending her off to sleep with sweet sheep, and goats, and perhaps a slightly over-protective Uncle Sam and Uncle Steve. Soon enough, both you and your daughter are fast asleep, the three of you now splayed across the couch. His left arm naturally rubs soothing circles into your back, and his right holds your daughter close, safe and sound.
And as the three of you lie there, and the clock quietly strikes 00:00, finally hitting your anniversary, he finally has a moment to himself, softly whispering a 'Happy Anniversary, prettiest girl' into your hair. He finally has a chance, to think quietly, all by himself. And in the quiet of the night, all he can think is-
summary: what was supposed to be an ordinary day takes a sharp turn when you notice a stranger stalking you. before you know it, you’re held hostage by one of your boyfriends’ most dangerous enemies. with danger rising and time running out, steve and bucky will stop at nothing to bring you back in safe arms.
warnings: kidnapping, hostage situation, reader is in college, violence, blood, injuries, weapons, guns, verbal threats, swearing, emotional distress, panic, fear, protective behavior, possessive behavior, intense anger, mentions of torture, restraint, angst, hurt/comfort, trauma, post-rescue comfort, steve and bucky being terrifying to enemies but gentle to you.
One principle your boyfriends had instilled in you from the very beginning, taught with both quiet urgency and lived example, was this: never doubt your instincts.
Trust them without delay. Respond to them without pride. Ignore them, and you risk everything. Bucky had said it once with the calm steel of experience, and Steve had only looked at you with that soft, solemn expression he wore when speaking of things he had lost. You had taken the lesson to heart.
But what precisely could be wrong now?
The café was warm and familiar, filled with the familiar aroma of ground espresso and buttered pastry. Light streamed through the tall, paned windows, casting long rectangles of morning gold across the polished wooden floors.
Students bustled in and out with the distracted energy of people who lived on caffeine and looming deadlines. A small bell above the entrance rang with each new arrival, its cheery tone doing little to interrupt your concentration. You had come here countless times, and nothing had ever once felt out of place.
Yet today, you could not shake the sensation.
The feeling settled into you gradually, the way cold water seeps through fabric — a slow, creeping unease that you could neither name nor dispel. You looked up from your notebook, the pages filled with notes on postmodernist theory and economic ethics, and allowed your gaze to scan the space with quiet precision.
Your eyes moved from the counter to the door, from the students to the far corners of the room, from the windows to the street beyond.
Nothing. Everything appeared precisely as it should.
Still, your hands had stilled against your tablet, your fingers frozen mid-sentence. That was the second sign. The first was the prickling at the back of your neck, that near-mythical alertness that every woman knows and every soldier respects — the kind that tells you when eyes are fixed upon you. You resisted the urge to turn too quickly, instead allowing your gaze to drift lazily across the room, as though distracted by a passing thought.
And then you saw him.
Seated alone in the far back corner, tucked into the shadows where the sunlight did not reach, was a man who did not belong. Not because of what he was doing — he held a coffee cup like anyone else, sitting in feigned stillness — but because of what he was hiding.
His cap was drawn low over his brow, and oversized sunglasses concealed the rest of his face. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with muscle, and though he attempted to appear casual, there was a stillness about him that rang false. It was the stillness of someone waiting.
Your blood chilled. Every part of your mind screamed at you to move.
You did not look at him again. You did not allow yourself the indulgence of a second glance. Instead, you began to gather your things with calculated calm, stacking your notebook atop your tablet, slipping them into your satchel with hands that only trembled once.
Your heart was pounding now, but you breathed through it, just as Natasha had taught you, just as Steve had reminded you — keep the panic low and the pace steady.
Still, regret clawed at your chest.
You should have brought Natasha.
She had offered, as she always did. But this morning, in your foolish optimism, you had told her not to bother, that you would be fine on your own, that you would only be studying at the café for a few short hours.
She had narrowed her eyes, unimpressed, but eventually conceded. You had dismissed her concerns with a flippant wave and a kiss on the cheek. Now, the only person you could think to call was the one you had deliberately left behind.
Your fingers shook as you hit her name on your phone.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
The bell over the door chimed as you stepped outside, the cold air biting against your skin. You did not look back. You did not need to. The sound of footsteps followed seconds later, steady and too close behind.
Natasha answered on the fourth ring, her voice calm but laced with a readiness that made your chest loosen just a little. "Hey there, sugar."
You didn’t return the greeting. Your breath hitched, and your voice came out in a whisper. "Nat… I think someone’s following me. I— I don’t know what to do."
There was silence for half a second. Then the sounds of movement erupted in the background — metal clattering, something heavy being dropped, followed by Natasha barking orders to someone, likely Sam.
"Where are you?" she demanded.
But before you could respond, she added, almost to herself, "No, forget it. I have your location. Stay on the phone. Do not stop moving. Do not talk to anyone. Do not go somewhere unfamiliar. Keep walking. I’m coming to you right now."
“I’m really scared, Nat, he’s walking right behind me.”
"Keep the phone to your ear. I want to hear everything. Don’t run, don’t look back again. Just act normal. You hear me?"
"Yeah," you nodded, voice barely audible.
Her voice remained steady, but you could hear the sharp urgency buried just beneath the surface, that tactical edge you had only ever seen emerge when she was in protective mode.
You opened your mouth to speak again, to tell her the street you had just turned down, to confirm the direction you were headed.
But then you felt it.
A hand — rough, broad, and cold — clamped over your mouth. A cloth pressed hard against your lips, soaked in something sharp and sickly sweet.
Your scream caught in your throat as your body instinctively jerked away, but it was too late. The world spun violently, and your limbs grew leaden. You heard Natasha’s voice shouting your name through the phone, which now lay somewhere on the pavement, forgotten.
The man chuckled. A low, pleased sound, the kind that settles in the pit of the stomach like ice.
You watched, barely conscious, as the heel of his boot ground your phone beneath it with an almost casual brutality.
The last thing you saw before the darkness took you completely was his silhouette turning, dragging you backwards, and the soft, indifferent buzz of the city continuing around you as though nothing at all had changed.
***
“What the fuck do you mean she’s gone?” Steve’s voice exploded, shattering the tension that had settled over the room like a storm about to break. The words came out strangled, disbelief and rage wrapped around each syllable like a noose.
Sam flinched. “She was at a coffee shop studying when she called Natasha saying someone’s following her. And then the signal—just cut. She’s not picking up. She’s not—”
Bucky didn’t wait for the rest.
His chair scraped back so violently it slammed into the floor behind him, but he didn’t so much as glance at the damage. His movements were all instinct now—sharp, clean, lethal.
A practiced hand disappeared beneath his tailored jacket, retrieving the sleek black pistol holstered under his ribs. The steel glinted coldly under the chandelier, a flash of silver fury. His face was a mask of ruin. Something feral cracked through his carefully restrained calm—an expression so raw and wrathful even Sam backed up a step.
“I’m gonna fucking kill Vincest.” Bucky snapped, more to himself than to anyone else, and then he was moving.
Steve was right behind him, fury giving chase to fear.
“Where the fuck was her tail?” Steve demanded as they reached the foyer, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched. “Who was watching her?!”
“She didn’t want anyone accompanying her,” Sam shouted after them, breathless. “She said she just needed a minute alone.”
Steve’s face twisted with fury, veins bulging in his neck. His voice rose, sharp and unforgiving, cutting through the room like a blade. “And why the fuck would anyone let her go alone?!”
He slammed his fist into the wall, the sound reverberating like a gunshot. “I don’t care if she’s stepping across the goddamn street to buy a damn coffee. You watch her. You accompany her. You make sure she doesn’t become someone else’s goddamn target. You keep her safe—or so help me, I will tear this entire operation apart piece by piece.”
His gaze burned into every single man standing there, his voice lowering but no less dangerous. “This isn’t just some fuck-up we can sweep under the rug. This is her life. And if any of you think for one second that you can just screw around and let her slip through your fingers—”
He cut himself off with a growl, his breath ragged. Then, with cold steel in his voice, he screamed, “Go! Go fucking search for her. Take orders from Natasha, from me, from whoever the hell. I don’t care how messy it gets, how many streets you tear apart, how many lives you burn through—she must be found.”
The room fell into a tense silence broken only by the sound of men scrambling, shouting confirmations, and the sharp clicks of weapons being readied.
Just then, the door slammed open with force, and Natasha strode in, face pale but determined.
“We found the warehouse,” she announced, voice steady despite the urgency. “She’s being held hostage by Vincent.”
Natasha was there, pacing like a caged panther, voice low and razor-sharp as she barked into her earpiece. Her eyes snapped to them the moment they appeared. No words, no pleasantries. Just a nod that screamed move.
“The last ping was five minutes ago, outside the library,” she said tightly, already handing Bucky a tablet with the paused CCTV footage. “Someone tailed her out. She clocked it. Called me scared out of her fucking mind.”
Steve snatched the tablet out of Bucky’s hands, eyes scanning like a man possessed. “Find him,” he growled. “I don’t care if you have to torch the whole goddamn city to do it.”
“We already are,” Natasha said, her voice like ice over flame. “I have four cars on standby and air support tracking the streets. But if they laid a trap—”
“They fucking won’t touch her.” Bucky’s voice was death itself. Cold, final. “They won’t fucking get the chance.”
Steve grabbed Bucky’s arm, pulling him toward the nearest car. “Come on. We’re not waiting.”
The engine roared to life, the tires screeching against asphalt as Steve pushed the car beyond its limits, his jaw locked in grim determination. Bucky sat beside him, fingers tightening around the gun, every second that passed fanning the rage consuming him.
The city blurred past in streaks of steel and concrete. Their hearts beat to the same rhythm of dread, every red light ignored, every corner taken with reckless precision. The silence between them was not empty but charged, a storm waiting to break.
When Natasha’s voice crackled through the comm, announcing she had traced you to Warehouse 14, neither man hesitated. Steve swerved sharply into the docklands, the car jolting as it tore across the uneven ground.
They did not pause. They did not plan. Bucky leapt out before the car had even fully stopped, his weapon raised, his movements mercilessly efficient. Steve followed, his own gun drawn, his shoulders squared in lethal resolve.
The first guard did not even have time to shout before Bucky’s bullet split the air and sent him crumpling to the ground. Another man tried to run, but Steve’s shot tore through his leg, dropping him instantly. The warehouse echoed with gunfire, shouts, and the thunder of boots as they moved forward, room by room, door by door, leaving no corner unchecked.
They were a tempest of violence and precision, their eyes cold, their fury a sharpened blade. Every obstacle was dismantled with terrifying ease, every man who stood in their way silenced before he could even raise his weapon.
And still, underneath the steel and blood, there was one thought alone, thrumming through their veins like a war drum: find you.
As Steve and Bucky surged through the final corridors of the warehouse, a tumult of thoughts collided in their minds.
They had been here before, in the shadows of power, surrounded by the evidence of their own ruthlessness. They had commanded fear, taken lives without hesitation, and navigated a world where weakness was punished without mercy.
And yet, despite all the blood they had shed, despite every crime they had committed and every advantage they had wielded, they felt something entirely alien now: helplessness at the thought of what state they might find you in.
Bucky’s jaw tightened as he imagined the worst, his hands curling around his gun until the metal creaked under the strength of his grip. Steve’s eyes narrowed, every instinct screaming that every second you were in the hands of another was a second too long, that the slightest delay could undo everything they had built to protect you.
Then, as they burst into the final storage room, their eyes locked on a figure standing directly before you, an audacious smirk twisting his face.
Tall, lean, and cruelly composed, the man’s dark clothing clung to him like a shadow. In his hands was a gun, leveled squarely at Steve’s head. His name was Vincent Karras, a man whose reputation for sadistic cunning rivaled only their own histories.
Before Steve could even blink, before the air could carry the threat of a single word, Bucky’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Two bullets tore into Vincent’s knees, each one precise and deliberate, forcing him to collapse in a howl of pain. He fell hard to the ground, still alive, still aware, a pawn left for the retribution yet to come. Bucky’s eyes did not waver; he had no intention of mercy, only the certainty that the threat to you would be extinguished swiftly.
Steve acted instantly. He shoved Vincent’s screaming, writhing body aside with a strength born of desperation and fury, his heart hammering as he lunged toward you.
He crouched beside your bound form, hands moving expertly to free you from the ropes that bit into your wrists and ankles. The gag fell away from your mouth, and your muffled cries erupted into full, heart-wrenching sobs.
In the next instant, you were in his arms. Steve held you against his chest, pressing you close as though the very act of holding you could undo the horrors you had endured. Your sobs shook his body, each one a dagger to his own heart, and he whispered fervently, words tumbling over themselves in his urgent need to reassure you.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re safe. You’re okay,” Steve murmured, his voice low and steady, every word soaked in tenderness.
His lips brushed gently against your hair, then your forehead—anywhere he could press them to make sure you felt his presence, his unwavering protection. “Fuck. Are you hurt? Did he do anything to you, baby? Please talk to me. Please tell me what happened.”
You hiccuped against his chest, shaking your head violently, your tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt. The sobs wracked your body like a storm barely contained. “I’m not hurt,” you managed, voice trembling between the breaks. “I’m not hurt. I just… I was so scared. I thought you wouldn’t find me. I thought you were never coming.”
Steve’s hands cupped your face, pulling you gently but firmly back so his eyes could meet yours. His own were glassy, heavy with a raw mixture of relief, anger, and a fierce, aching protectiveness.
“Hey, hey, baby. Listen to me, okay? I will always find you. Always. No matter what. I swear to you, I will never fail to find you. If I have to tear this entire world apart, I will.” His voice cracked, thick with emotion. “I am so, so sorry you had to go through this. None of this was supposed to happen. Not to you.”
Bucky knelt down beside you both, gun still poised and ready, his eyes darting across the room, scanning every shadow.
But even as his gaze searched for danger, the tension in his jaw softened when he looked at you. His hands twitched, longing to hold you, to pull you close and never let go. The weight of the terror and helplessness he felt twisted inside him, but he masked it behind that cold, calculated exterior—the shield he wore for you.
Steve tightened his arms around you, pulling you as close as if sheer force could erase the nightmare you’d endured. “You’re safe now,” he whispered, voice fierce and desperate. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t let this happen again. I swear it, love. You hear me? Not ever again.”
You nodded, burying your face deep into his chest, your tears still flowing but your body beginning to still, soothed by the warmth and strength that surrounded you. You could feel the electric pulse of fury radiating from both men, a silent promise etched in every tense muscle and guarded breath: no one would ever hurt you again.
Steve carried you gently through the warehouse doors, your trembling form clinging to him as though letting go would mean the end of the world.The black-shaded cars waited silently, engines idling like predatory beasts, their sleek frames reflecting the cold glow of the streetlights.
Just as Steve approached the nearest vehicle, the moment he had intended to set you down, your sobs returned in a fresh, violent wave. Your head pressed into his chest, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as though it were the only lifeline left in existence.
“No, no, no,” you whimpered, your voice cracking. “Please, don’t leave me alone, Steve. I don’t want to… I don’t want to be alone right now.”
Steve froze for a heartbeat, startled by the raw panic in your tone. Then he pulled you even closer, adjusting his hold so your trembling body could feel the full measure of his arms.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmured softly, his lips brushing against the crown of your head. “I am right here. I am not leaving you. I just have to go for a minute to deal with something, alright?”
You shook your head frantically, the motion urgent and insistent. “No, Steve. I don’t want to be alone!”
His lips pressed against your chest, just above your heart, in a tender, grounding gesture. “Bucky will be here with you, yeah? I will not let you be alone. He is not going anywhere.”
The mere mention of Bucky’s name brought an almost immediate relief, a shiver of hope that ran through your body. You lifted your gaze and saw him standing a few feet away, his broad frame illuminated by the pale light, eyes locked on you with unwavering concern.
He began to close the distance, and as he wrapped an arm securely around you, your shoulders began to relax, the tension of terror easing into a fragile comfort.
Steve and Bucky exchanged a brief, loaded glance. Steve gave a subtle nod, one that acknowledged the mission still waiting for him inside, and then turned back toward the warehouse, likely to confront Vincent or ensure no other threats remained.
Bucky, meanwhile, pressed a kiss to your hair before pulling you fully into his chest, the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his breathing acting like a balm on your frayed nerves. “You okay, sweet girl?” he murmured, his voice husky but gentle.
You nodded, still letting your face rest against him. “Mhm. I just… I just want to go back home.”
He smiled softly, the kind of smile that held both relief and quiet adoration. “Yeah. Let’s go, doll. Steve and Natasha will be following us shortly. You’re safe. I promise you that.”
Bucky led you to the car, holding your hand as you climbed into the passenger seat. He helped you buckle your seatbelt, making sure you were secure before pressing a tender kiss into your temple.
“You’re such a strong girl, you know that?” he said, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek as his gaze lingered on you. “Even when you’re scared, you never stop being strong. And I will always make sure you are safe. I swear to you, nothing will hurt you again while I am here.”
You leaned back against the seat, letting yourself sink into the reassurance of his arms and words.
The ride back is silent, except for the occasional rustle of Bucky’s jacket as he shifts the wheel with white-knuckled precision. His jaw is clenched so tight you’re surprised his teeth haven’t cracked. The streets blur by in a haze of golden light and dust, but all you can see is his reflection in the window—stone-faced, lethal, ruined.
When you get home, he doesn’t say anything. He just lifts you gently from the car like you weigh nothing, carrying you through the front door and past the wide marble halls of the estate.
In the bathroom, he sits you on the counter. He kneels to untie your shoes and slips them off with reverent hands, as if even your shoelaces had been bruised by the day. He’s quiet. Too quiet.
Then, the water starts. Warm. Steaming. He helps you undress, moving slowly like you might shatter if he rushes, and washes away the dirt, the blood, the dust of the place you were kept. He doesn’t speak—not when he rinses your hair, not when he runs a cloth over your back. But his hands shake. Like he’s barely holding it together.
When you’re finally dry and warm again, wrapped in one of his shirts, you follow him to the bedroom. He sets you down on the edge of the bed and disappears for a second, returning with a small medical kit.
“Hold still, doll,” he murmurs as he kneels in front of you.
Your wrists are red and irritated. Rope burns in angry circles. He takes his time cleaning them, brushing ointment over the raw skin with careful fingers. You wince once, and he pauses immediately, looking up.
“Sorry,” he breathes, voice breaking just a little. “I’ll be gentle.”
You nod, throat tight.
He finishes bandaging the last wrist and kisses it.
Then comes the conversation you’ve been dreading.
“From now on,” Bucky began slowly, his voice soft but resolute, “you don’t leave the house without Natasha. Not for a second. Not even to step outside the door alone.”
You blink, caught off guard by the suddenness of his words. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said again, his tone firmer this time, though still gentle. “You don’t go anywhere unless Nat is with you. I mean it.”
A tight knot formed in your stomach, twisting with frustration. “Bucky, that’s insane. I’m not a child.”
He stayed kneeling before you, looking up with those steady eyes that always seemed to see right through you. “You’re not a child, no. But you’re ours. And after what happened…” He swallowed hard, the weight of those words hanging heavily between you. “We can’t afford to take that risk again. Not ever.”
You let out a sharp breath, the frustration bubbling up from deep inside your chest. “Natasha has better things to do than babysit me. She’s not just my bodyguard. She’s your partner—your right hand in this whole business, this mafia world you live in. She probably wants to be out there, running things, making moves. Not stuck following me to classes or running errands or… whatever boring stuff fills my days.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Boring?”
You nodded, biting your lip. “I know her. She’s the kind of woman who thrives on action. On plans. On missions. I don’t want her to feel trapped just because she’s with me.”
He reached out then, his rough hands enveloping yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “Doll, trust me when I say Natasha wouldn’t get bored with you. Not for a second.”
You looked away, embarrassed by how vulnerable you felt.
“Besides,” he continued, his voice dropping to a softer, almost reverent tone, “you didn’t see what she was like when you went missing. She was just as frantic, just as desperate as Steve and me. Maybe even worse.”
His thumbs brushed lightly over your knuckles. “She sees you as her little sister.”
A sting burned at the corners of your eyes, and you blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay.
At that moment, the door creaked open. Steve stepped inside quietly.
He looked clean now, the dark clothes he wore fresh and unblemished—not like the bloodstained ones from before. You realized with a cold knot in your stomach that those had belonged to someone else.
Without a word, he walked over to you, cupped your face gently, and pressed a kiss to your temple. Your eyes fluttered closed at the simple touch.
Then he settled beside you on the bed. For a long moment, he said nothing, only resting a steady hand on your thigh.
“You scared the hell out of us,” he says finally. His voice is rough. Almost hoarse. “I thought I was going to kill everyone in that building.”
You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head.
“Don’t apologize,” he whispers. “Just... promise me you’ll be more careful.”
“I didn’t choose this,” you say quietly. “I didn’t know he’d grab me—”
“I know, baby girl.” His hand tightens on your leg. “It’s not your fault. None of it is. But it’s why we need to protect you. Even if you hate it.”
You turn then, shifting on the bed so you’re facing Steve fully. Your hands come up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing over the stubble lining his jaw. His eyes—those stormy blues still heavy with worry—soften just a fraction under your touch.
“I know you won’t let me be alone again,” you murmur, voice small but steady. “I know that. But don’t you think… maybe it’s a little too much, having Natasha follow me everywhere?”
Your sentence cuts off when Steve exhales sharply, a sigh heavy enough to sag his shoulders. His big hand comes up to cover one of yours where it rests against his cheek, holding it there like it’s his anchor.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice low and rough around the edges. “I don’t care if it sounds like too much. You have to understand… when we didn’t know where you were, when Sam came in and told us you were gone—I swear, I couldn’t breathe. I thought I’d already lost you. And I can’t—” His voice catches, and he swallows hard, shaking his head as if he can banish the thought.
“I can’t ever feel that again. So if that means Natasha shadows you every second of the day, then that’s what’s happening. I need you safe. I need you here.”
Your chest tightens at the rawness in his tone. He presses his forehead to yours, his breath shaky as if he’s still pulling himself back from the edge.
“I can’t lose you,” Steve whispers, softer now, almost like a prayer. “So just… let me take care of you. Please.”
Before you can respond, Bucky’s voice rumbles beside you, quiet but firm.
“He’s right, doll.” You glance over at him, and the sight of him—still crouched near, still watching you like you’re the only thing that matters—makes your throat ache.
You bite your lip, looking down, but Bucky tips your chin up gently with his finger, forcing you to meet his eyes. They’re bright with conviction, but also unbearably soft.
“We’re not asking for much. Just… let us keep you safe. Let us breathe knowing that Natasha’s there when we can’t be.” His thumb strokes over your jaw. “That woman would tear down the whole world if it meant protecting you.”
Steve hums in agreement, his hand still cupping the side of your face. “Natasha wants to do this. Don’t take that choice away from her.”
Your eyes flick between the two men—the desperation in Steve’s, the fierce devotion in Bucky’s—and the resistance you’d been holding onto starts to crumble.
“I just…” you whisper, voice cracking. “I don’t want to be a problem. I don’t want to drag either of you.”
Bucky shifts then, slips an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his solid warmth while Steve still holds your hand. Sandwiched between them, you feel cocooned, your protest melting beneath the weight of their care.
“Love,” Bucky says softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You could never be a problem. You’re the best damn thing that’s happened to any of us.”
Steve presses a kiss to your temple again, lingering. “All we’re asking is that you let us do our job—keeping you safe. That’s it. You don’t have to carry the weight of whether it’s too much or not. You just have to be here with us.”
For a long moment, you sit in silence, wrapped up in the warmth of their words and their bodies pressed close on either side. Slowly, the tightness in your chest eases, and the tears you’d been fighting finally spill, but this time they’re softer—relief instead of fear.
Steve wipes them away with his thumb before they can trail down your cheeks. “There she is,” he murmurs, smiling faintly. “There’s our girl.”
You let out a shaky laugh, muffled as you bury your face against Steve’s chest, Bucky’s arm tightening around your back.
And for the first time since it all happened, you believe them; you really are back in safe arms.
Summary: The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.
Warnings: 18+. Dubcon. Corruption kink. Virginity loss. Arranged marriage between enemies. Brat taming. Breeding kink. Beefy, mob boss Bucky devolving into a fall-to-his-knees-just-to-fuck-you kind of horny mess.
Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Dividers by the lovely @saradika 💞
You kissed him and wished him dead in the same breath. You said ‘I do’ and meant ‘I don’t,’ exchanged your vows like your own last rites, and felt him slip the ring on your finger as if he’d just tightened a noose around your neck.
You didn’t want to be a bride, and you sure as hell didn’t want to be the bride to Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.
Frankly, you were mortified.
And terrified, too, now that you knew your groom might actually kill you in the kitchen of your honeymoon suite.
“Have you lost your fucking mind?!”
“I walked down the aisle, didn’t I?”
Another plate went crashing on the wall behind your husband’s head just as he managed to duck. He side-stepped a spray of porcelain and glass and probably crushed several hundred shards beneath his polished black oxfords when he walked—stalked—over to you.
You’d just reared back to hurl a serving plate at his face when you found your speed swiftly outmatched. Bucky had your elbow gripped between his forefinger and thumb in less than a second, and, pinching the bone like he might readily break it, he said, even as always,
“Put it down.”
You did as he told you and dropped the platter to the floor with a crash.
Rather than berate you for the broken china—or the four other pieces before it—your husband only smiled.
“Are we done?”
Hell, you wanted to be. Slide over a pen and a one-way plane ticket to someplace in BFE, and you’d be signing those divorce papers in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, your dear husband was just referring to the temper tantrum.
You weren’t totally sure if you were finished on that front, so you looked him up and down and shrugged.
“Now darling—” he started.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Light of my life—”
“I’ll kill you.”
Your cool, level-headed groom took each gibe like it was his sworn duty, and only when he yanked your wrists behind your back and shoved you toward the bedroom door did you sense that he might not be too pleased with your behavior.
Your knees struck the edge of the California King at the center of the room, and before you could will yourself not to fall face-first, Bucky nudged you hard again.
Still pinning your hands behind you, he followed your collapse on the bed and leaned over your prone body.
His breaths were hot on your ear; you could tell he was smiling as he started to hike your dress up your legs.
“It’s all part of the deal, doll.”
You wriggled under his hold and tried to angle yourself better to see him, hoping he’d see your scowl.
“The deal was to get married,” you reminded him.
“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed, just then starting to trail a finger up the uncovered skin of your calf with his other hand, “And what is it that married people do?”
You kicked your foot reflexively, paused, then said,
“Fight. Constantly. Probably resent each other for the better part of two decades before we finally decide that ‘making it work’ for the kids isn’t worth it at all, and I claim half of everything you own in a bitter divorce.”
That earned a chuckle from Bucky. He kept his roaming hand brushing up the back of your thigh and squeezed the flesh just below the swell of your rear.
“Don’t worry, my lawyer drafted a pretty good prenup.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but then he was tracing the contour of your ass with his palm, and you cut yourself short. Bucky carried on, careless as ever.
“But the kids you mentioned,” he said, “How are we supposed to get those?”
You pursed your lips and tried hard not to move when his fingers drifted inward—you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. The bottom of your dress was bunched around your hips now, leaving you sorely exposed. Had your bridesmaids not thrust that stupid white lingerie set upon you hours before the wedding, you probably would’ve chosen something a little more modest than a thong. But here you were.
At least the sight seemed appealing to your husband, whose eyes hadn’t left you once while his hands grew even hungrier to feel your warmth.
“I’m hoping a sperm donor or one of your double-crossing mobster friends will knock me up, honestly,” you said, feigning enthusiasm at the thought.
A tart slap delivered to your ass told you that Bucky hadn’t found that funny. After, he started kneading the skin a bit harder.
“No shot,” he shook his head, suddenly gliding his fingers down closer to your core and waiting for you to say something in protest, “Only one that’s gonna be pumping this thing full of babies is me, I promise.”
It was like he wanted your retaliation, whether that be by a thinly veiled look of disgust or a reactionary jab of your own. You weren’t keen on fulfilling any wish of his, but at this point, you felt you had no other choice. When you sensed he was distracted by the newly-discovered heat between your legs and had loosened his grip on your wrists, you flipped yourself over on the bed. Shoved at his chest before he knew what to do with himself.
Of course, the push didn’t send him far, but it was enough to get his attention—and his hands off of you.
“I’m not having your babies, Barnes! I am never going to fuck you, no matter how long we stay fake married,” you spat.
At that, Bucky just raised his eyebrows and wet his lips. You were cramming your wedding dress back into place, glaring at him the whole time, and were scarcely more aware of the bright, teeming city outside the window than you were of your husband’s own growing erection.
Finally, you’d said it. His new wife wouldn’t fuck him. The sound of your resistance was almost a pleasure unto itself, and the longer you stared at Bucky with growing contempt and resolve not to do that thing, the more determined he became to make it happen.
Cat-and-mouse games had long been a staple in his life, and he was pleased to see them carry into his marriage as well. Surely if he’d triumphed in every pursuit for the last twenty years—facing the likes of some seriously execrable bandits and racketeers—he could take on a bratty woman less than half his size. You said you didn’t want his babies now, but just wait until he’d fucked you full of his cum once or twice. You’d be begging him for it in no time at all, and shortly thereafter, he’d have you barefoot and pregnant as many times as he liked. Always swollen with one of his children and whining for more.
The woman before him now had a murderous glint in her eyes, but he could fuck that away easy. In fact, he would live to do it. He traced the outline of your thigh over your dress and smiled when you tried not to recoil.
“Surely you didn’t think we’d be finger-painting and reading poetry to each other on our wedding night, hm?” he asked, almost delicately.
“Thought you might have one of your other women lined up,” you snorted. When you tried to move away, Bucky pinched your leg to make you stay. You winced.
“That’s not funny,” he said, a little more consternation in his tone. Like he actually cared whether you thought him a profligate Lothario or not, “Now that we’re married, it’s only you and me. No mistresses, nothing.”
Yeah, and he was just as likely arriving to your marital bed a blushing virgin. You rolled onto your side and pretended not to feel him tighten his grip as you did.
“Try the carnal part of our marriage yourself and I’m sure you’ll find I’m an exceptional fuck,” Bucky continued, speaking low as he stroked the chiffon of your dress.
You didn’t doubt the man was good—certainly the extent of his sexual escapades as a twenty-something seemed to demand it—but exceptional? No fucking way. You knew men like Bucky, with the world and every walking pair of tits at their fingertips, and almost all were incurably selfish. Cocky. The kind to jackhammer a woman for three consecutive minutes, roll over, and say, ‘Did you cum?’
No, there was not a snowball’s chance in hell your husband’s sexual prowess was even half as good as he claimed it was. Deciding to bite your tongue for the first time that night, though, you just stared at him blankly.
What you didn’t know was that your silence only stoked the flames of his ego, prompting him to press the matter further.
“What? You think I can’t fuck?” he said, “Any woman lucky enough to bed me has cum at least twice. Every time.”
Sure they did, Bucky, you wanted to say, but were suddenly drawn into his lap before you could speak.
“But let’s pretend I can’t,” he said, heedless of the face you made as soon as you were straddling his hips, “You wouldn’t let your husband prove himself tonight?”
“I don’t fuck strangers.”
Bucky smiled at that.
“Everyone’s a stranger until you get to blow them, honey,” he teased, squeezing your hips when you didn’t seem amused at all. Then you let out a cry, feeling yourself thrown back on the mattress like a rag doll while Bucky moved off.
Before you knew it, he was tugging your ankles down the length of the bed and widening his stance just a bit. He stopped pulling once your knees were grazing his black dress pants and your feet were dangling off of the bed.
“You like skylines?” he asked.
You frowned and raised a brow that he was quick to interpret as a ‘yes.’ He hauled you onto your feet.
“‘Course you do. All pretty girls like pretty skies,” he rattled on, strolling with you step-by-step to the set of French doors at the end of the room.
Bucky led you out to the balcony. The air was warm as it ever was, dull gusts of the evening wind curling up from the coastline below. Just as your husband had promised, the skyline of Santorini greeted you on either side, and you had to admit, it was more than just pretty. The views from your villa were absolutely breathtaking.
You stood with your back to Bucky, hands resting on the marble balustrade, and you felt him there, behind you. You didn’t bother to tilt your head when he drew even closer.
“What do you like most about it?” The question was simple enough, punctuated with a kiss on your shoulder. Your eyes scanned the horizon, the sea, even the quiet little streets down beneath, and you racked your brain trying to think of an answer that might satisfy him.
Before you could, though, you sucked in a breath when you felt your dress start to come undone at your back.
Bucky was unzipping your gown, gentle as ever, and probably grinning from ear to ear as he watched you shift uncomfortably in place and try to hold the material above your breasts where it had been fastened all day. Presently, you kicked your heel backward and hoped it would land somewhere near his balls. You missed.
“James,” you hissed.
Bucky groaned at the sheer intonation of his name on your lips.
“Yes, dear?”
“Why are you undressing me?”
Bucky had successfully dragged the zipper all the way down to your ass, and it seemed he was trying to shimmy the dress off your frame. You held on tight.
“I’d like to fuck my bride over the balcony railing, if that’s alright with you,” he answered truthfully.
The man was nothing if not blunt and crass. You turned around to give him a look, yanking your gown even closer to your chest.
“I’ll— I’ll tell my mother, Barnes.”
You felt stupid as soon as you’d said it—using your go-to threat whenever you were in distress. What were you, eleven?
“Your mother?” Bucky repeated, words steeped in derision, “Last I recall, mommy dearest was practically begging me to get you pregnant at the reception.”
Your jaw clenched, and you internally cursed your whole family. Your parents were supposed to be on your side throughout all of this—it was bad enough they’d pawned you off to a mob boss of unrivaled infamy all to settle a debt, but this? Your mother had assured you just the day before that Mr. Barnes was bound to tire of you within the year. No mention of sex or babies whatsoever.
The same mother who had beat you over the head with the notion of your own virginity since you were old enough to read, the one who had underscored just how important it was to wait for the right man to give yourself body, mind, and soul to, turning around and telling this filthy criminal to have you any way he liked. And knock you up? The fucking nerve of that woman.
You were so preoccupied with thoughts of your own backstabbing family that you hardly felt Bucky drag your dress the rest of the way down your body. It was only when you were completely bare before him, and your husband had just started to skim his lips over your tummy that you tensed with surprise.
“I don’t have to fuck you just yet, doll,” he murmured, having sunk to his knees and only moving lower. Then the corners of his lips twitched, “Least not with my dick.”
You tried to pry his head from between your legs before he could stretch his tongue so much as an inch.
“James!”
Again with that name.
“You know, I love when you call me that, Mrs. Barnes.”
Bucky was peering up at you now, soaking in the sight of your body in a white lace bra, panties, and stockings.
“Is my bride feeling shy?” he teased, gently nipping at your inner thighs.
You weren’t sure what you were feeling in that moment, to be honest. Revulsion, betrayal, arousal, you name it—each crowned with an all-encompassing hatred for the man currently occupying the space between your legs—while a still stronger desire almost hoped he would stay.
“You can hate your husband all you want and still let him tonguefuck you,” Bucky growled against your skin.
Like he’d read your mind.
In reality, your husband hardly needed the powers of telepathy to tell him just how turned on you were; the sopping wet spot in your panties said as much. From his vantage point, Bucky saw the disgust in your eyes slowly eclipsed by lust, and with a single flick of his tongue, he knew he would have you exactly where he wanted you.
“Just let it happen, honey.”
He felt your fingers thread tight through his hair and the first stir of your hips in tandem. One small, delectable whimper crossed your lips, and it took everything in Bucky not to tear your panties straight off with his teeth.
Instead, the man opted for a soft, gentle lick over your clothed slit. Testing the waters.
Your whimper was quick to meld to a moan, and then, just as fast:
“N-no, Bucky.”
To your dismay, his tongue didn’t retreat, only making firmer laps against your centre while his lips grazed the lace. He gripped your thighs and wedged himself deeper, and again, you cursed the paper thin fabric of your panties for letting you feel everything his mouth was doing. He hadn’t even made proper contact with your cunt, and your knees were already starting to shake.
He pressed a kiss above your clit through the flimsy material, and you almost tore a clump of hair from his head.
“No. Please.” You hardly made sense to yourself; it was clear you wanted his touch, but something inside you wasn’t quite ready to submit to the idea that this was all okay. That your husband’s tongue and lips might be meant for something like this, and you didn’t have to feel so guilty for wanting it either. Fucking purity culture.
“My pretty girl,” Bucky presently murmured above the fabric, words sending a dozen little shockwaves in their wake, “My beautiful fucking wife.”
The man inhaled your scent and could’ve sworn he was in ecstasy. Blinded by desire as he was, he really wasn’t bullshitting in the slightest when he gathered you to him and said you were the best; he’d genuinely grown transfixed by the feel of you, in spite of every fibre of his being telling him not to. The marriage was arranged, fake, and fueled by hatred—and somehow, Bucky couldn’t get enough.
Nor could he wait any longer. One light swipe of his finger tugged your panties aside, and then he was latching on, no cover this time, to take your clit between his lips. Sucking hard, going fast, needing it bad.
A moan rang loud in his ears, and your hand on his head was instantly joined by the other. You yanked his hair like you never had before, pulling so tight at the roots as though your pleasure depended on it. Bucky smiled around the soft pearl in his mouth and flicked it gently with the tip of his tongue.
“Feel good, baby?” he breathed.
His head tilted up to you, and he could see you were struggling just to breathe, face painted with a medley of emotions.
You didn’t know if you could, or should, be feeling this good from a man so evil. Bucky flattened his tongue and licked a long stripe up your pussy to ensure that you would. Then he posed the question again, smirking.
“You like my tongue on this wet, needy cunt?”
His words were so damn obscene, but you nodded anyway. Feeling small and powerless beneath those big, broad hands as they pinned you back on the marble and spread you even wider for the taking.
He loved how innocent and lewd you looked at once, wincing with pleasure and still trying to keep your composure like you thought a good girl should.
Bucky wanted to break that resolve. He brought one hand closer to your entrance.
And, just as your breaths were starting to hitch and grow more ragged in your chest, he pushed two fingers inside. The act surprised your husband almost as much as it did you—not quite, but almost—upon feeling how tight you were, how resistant to even two digits you seemed to be. He hardly knew whether to shove them deeper or pull them out, so fast did your muscles contract around him.
When you whined a loud, protracted, ‘FUCK!’ he figured he would stick with the former. He grinned, having never heard you speak, much less swear, out of pleasure like this.
Your head lolled back and your body made an arch when his fingers curled inside you. You were panting, moaning, coating his hand with your juices, and Bucky knew you were close.
He started pumping his fingers in and out while his tongue worked your clit, chin practically doused in your arousal by now. A swell of pride rose within him: he could finally bring you home to that sweet release, have you a shaking, soaking mess above his face like you were wholly his and no one else’s. He moved his tongue even faster and sank his fingers straight down to the knuckle.
Then, unexpectedly, both were robbed of your touch.
Seized with fear, you shoved Bucky off and stumbled away from his glistening face. You took off toward the doors and fled the balcony before you could think.
“What the f— honey? Honey?!” Bucky sputtered. He bounded after you.
You’d thrown yourself in the master bathroom and locked the door behind you in the blink of an eye. Outside, your husband had only to stare in pure bewilderment and awe, mind reeling at what had just happened.
Fucking hell, he knows. He knows! You collapsed against the door and slid down a couple inches. Your hand reflexively flew to your mouth to stifle the sounds when Bucky began pounding the wood behind you.
“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s—what’s goin’ on?”
In truth, you’d rather chug bleach than divulge the thought that had just scared the everliving fuck out of you back there. It was stupid and senseless and should’ve been frightening you for weeks before it ever came to this, but here you were, panicked in the bathroom of your honeymoon suite because you’d never done this before—and you’d never reached climax in your life without bursting into tears.
Fuck, you felt stupid. How could you think this would be any different—or that Bucky’s tongue wouldn’t eventually attempt to wrest an orgasm out of you?
It’d just felt so good, you thought maybe a new climax brought by someone else’s fingers might free you from the same unsavory demise you’d met a hundred times before, but then it hit you, shortly after Bucky had plunged his fingers inside, you were going to cry.
You winced when Bucky’s knocks grew louder, his voice gaining more ire by the second, it seemed.
“Open the fucking door!”
He’d rake you over the coals for this. Getting so close to what he wanted, only to have his silly little bride snatch it all away and run hiding in the en-suite bathroom? Your stomach turned at the thought of what men in the mob were liable to do with women like you—what Bucky might conceivably do now that you’d sparked his rage.
Your eyes darted to the window just as his fist shook the doorframe behind you. You ran over to the tub, tucked squarely beneath the windowsill, and climbed onto it just to get a hold of the fastenings around the glass.
One click synchronized with the furious cadence being hammered on the door, and just as you started to slide the pane up the way, a heavy thud sounded outside. The weight of your husband’s body being thrust against the door, most likely.
You bit your lip and lifted one leg over the windowsill, shuffling your body even closer to the outside world.
Three floors up! Have you lost your mind? You could hear your father’s words ringing in your skull already. There was a ledge, you reasoned, no more than ten feet below, if you could just grab hold of the frame right there and slide down the cool stone you might—
“Fuck,” Bucky groaned.
You watched your husband heave through the busted door of the bathroom, wide eyes and a ‘Here’s Johnny’ flourish raging hot on his face. Your heart leapt to your throat, and you started to lower yourself out of the window, hoping desperately for that ledge below to be sturdy. But before you could make it even half of the way there, strong arms were circling your frame and yanking you back inside, hurtling straight into the bathtub with Bucky tumbling over you.
“What are you doing?!” he roared.
You wriggled under his weight, petrified of the fiery look in his eyes as he lurched over your frame.
He straightened up just enough to shake you by the shoulders—like a parent reprimanding a child.
“What the fuck was that?! Huh? You think that’s fucking funny, jumping out windows?”
No, no, not funny, you wanted to bite back, but found your mouth dry and unable to speak. When Bucky shook you again, you had only to whimper a pathetic sound.
The man was enraged. Stubble still damp with your juices and looking undeniably frazzled and spent, he drew closer to your face and demanded you look at him. When he took hold of your cheeks in both hands, the command couldn’t have reached you any more clearly.
“What— what was that for?” his voice lowered as he tried to catch his breath. You still couldn’t move.
“I-I don’t—” you stopped and hardly knew how to say it:
Sorry to cut our tonguefucking session short, I was just afraid I might burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears while you licked and sucked me through the best orgasm of my life. I’d rather jump off, or out of, a building than tell my mob boss husband that I can’t cum without crying. By the way, I’m a virgin!
Instead, you just blinked and stared back at him.
“Can’t…do it,” you murmured.
Bucky’s expression only grew more puzzled by the words out of your mouth. He squeezed your face tighter and leaned in even closer.
“Do what? Sex? Fuck, I— I didn’t mean to be that aggressive, hell, I’m sorry.” He stopped to run a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you could’ve sworn you saw the first glint of compunction in his eyes.
He looked away a few seconds, as if collecting what fragmented thoughts he could, then brought his head back down to your level and took your hands in his.
“Honey?” he tried getting your attention, just barely above a whisper now, “I know the whole thing’s fucked, I know.”
That was the understatement of the century. To your surprise, Bucky’s gaze softened when he saw a scowl cross your face.
“We don’t…have to do anything. I was just pushing your buttons earlier. Being a dick.”
His tongue moved to wet his lips once more, this time without the seductive, smug demeanor he usually wore and simply exhibiting discomfort. He swallowed. The bow tie around his neck appeared to him to be fastened far too tight all of a sudden, and then, haphazardly, he started clawing at the garment to get it off.
You didn’t know why you felt compelled to help. It was like all ten fingers just lifted of their own accord to join Bucky’s hands in trying to undo his tie.
The silk fabric wasn’t tied, but knotted, crudely and inflexibly, beneath the little black bow. You frowned. Still unable to meet his gaze as you worked your fingers under the tangled material and tried to pretend like the two of you weren’t still sweating profusely from the events that had just transpired—both the tonguefucking and the window-jumping.
“Who tied this, a five-year-old?” you muttered.
“I’m thirty-eight, thanks,” Bucky returned just as quietly.
Both of you indulged in a smile that lasted no longer than a second, but you felt the tension ease a little.
This was not where you thought your dreaded wedding night was headed before. Curled up in a bathtub with your hands around your husband’s neck—and not actually trying to kill him—while Bucky blinked almost nervously the longer your hands lingered on his collar. It seemed he’d found something especially tantalizing on the wall behind your head, because his stare remained fixed on that spot the whole time you fiddled with his tie.
Maybe that, along with the last ebb of alcoholic influence from the reception still coursing through your veins, had emboldened you to come right out and say it while Bucky was looking away. You couldn’t be sure.
“I’ve never had sex before.”
At last, the tie loosened a little.
Bucky flicked his gaze back to yours in a second.
“What?”
You lifted a brow, wondering if he really needed an explanation as to what it meant to have never gotten laid before, but you decided against indulging him any further. Bucky seemed keen on doing that all by himself.
“You’re a virgin?”
You nodded.
“Didn’t my overbearing mother make sure you knew?”
“Yeah, I thought she was full of shit,” Bucky answered bluntly. Then, catching sight of the semi-offended look in your eye, mixed with a tad more amusement than indignation, he added, “I mean— I didn’t think you’d, uh, wanna wait…twenty-five years for some action.”
He winced when he realized that sounded just as bad. His throat cleared shortly to make way for a new attempt at comity, but you cut him off, shaking your head as you finally got the knot to untangle.
“No, I get it. I don’t know why I waited this long either,” you shrugged.
As soon as you’d freed him from his bow tie, you started to stand from the bath tub. Bucky, too, straightened to his full height and started to close the window while you walked back to the bedroom.
You eyed the rose petals strewn across the duvet and felt a little more relaxed this time around. The weight of the V-word had been lifted from your shoulders, and now you had only to share the crying-while-cumming stuff to Bucky later on. Much later on, you hoped.
You crawled onto the bed and stretched out on your belly, playing with the soft red petals and wondering if room service was still offered at this hour.
Bucky had just stepped out of the bathroom when he halted at the threshold. Saw your body sprawled out on the bed, back arched and ass pointed in the air as you reached over for the phone on the nightstand. He stared for a second too long and felt a familiar stir in his pants.
Sonovabitch, he started to think, before chiding himself silently, Shut up, man, she’s a virgin. Be cool. Be cool—don’t make her jump out a window again.
He ducked back in the bathroom and eased the door to just a crack while you discovered a voice on the line:
“Hi! Hey, I’d like to order room service to, uh…” your voice trailed off. Then, covering the mouthpiece, “James, what’s our room number?”
Inside the bathroom, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his name. Already palming his erection through his dress pants as he leaned against the wall.
“We rented the whole building, dear,” he called back.
“Oh.” He could just imagine the slight pout on your lips as you spoke. Then you asked if he wanted anything to eat, Bucky thought only of the sweet nectar between your legs, and he answered aloud, no, he was fine, really.
For the first time in his life, the man felt positively ashamed he was about to rub one out in a bathroom, alone. It wasn’t like this was the first it had ever been done, but now there was you, innocent and oblivious in the next room over, while Bucky undid his belt and quietly freed his cock from his dress pants. It felt kind of perverted, in a way, but he knew he needed this release to put his mind at ease and not feel so affected by you.
While you scanned your phone for a menu and chatted with the concierge downstairs about various food items, Bucky was spitting in his hand and fumbling for his shaft. You talked American Wagyu sirloin, lobster thermidor, and seared Faroe Island salmon while he thought achingly about the way your cunt had tasted and how badly he wanted to try it again.
How did he feel about an artisan cheese platter? Bucky hardly had the wits about himself to answer beyond a strangled, ‘Whatever you want, honey’ and a tightened fist around his cock, stroking hard to get the filthy thoughts out of his head before the food arrived.
Ever sweet, soft, supple, and savory—his mind reeled with fresh memories of that place between your thighs, and he almost lurched forward in pleasure.
Your brute of a mob boss husband was irreparably pussy-whipped and hadn’t even fucked you yet. He gripped the bathroom sink beside him and sincerely wished it wasn’t his hand doing the work right now. But of course, he had to be patient, had to be kind—couldn’t force himself on a woman who clearly wasn’t ready.
Again, he spit in his palm and jerked himself fast.
Any minute now, he thought with some relief.
Your feet padded softly into the living room as the pleasure inside him was starting to crest. Still pining for your warmth and the way your legs trembled around his head, Bucky was all but fucking his hand at this point. He’d snagged his bottom lip between his teeth in a lopsided smile and groaned, too low to be heard, and pumped himself even faster for his impending orgasm.
A thought crossed your mind as you stopped ahead of the sofa. You pivoted.
Suddenly, you were skipping back to the bathroom, wanting to know Bucky’s wine preferences before you placed another order.
You barged in and froze.
“Sorry!” you squeaked, darting out just as fast.
Five seconds slower and you probably would’ve seen Bucky blow his load all over the sink. As it was, the man was left sorely at a loss for any form of release and heaving fast, ragged breaths from the colossal scare you’d just given him.
Good fucking going, Buck—your wife wants to cuddle and eat cheese and you’re out here beating your meat.
Bucky shoved himself back in his pants and waited an excruciating minute for the sound of your second window exit of the night. A slammed door, a frantic phone call, a few sobs into your pillow as you realized how dirty and depraved your husband was, anything.
He was only met with silence.
Taking one more shaky breath, Bucky reached for the doorknob and started back out. Cautiously.
The man took his slow, silent leave of the bathroom with his gaze trained toward the doors—half-expecting to see his bride rappelling from the balcony—but then quickly shifted to the bed. Finding you kneeling at the edge.
“James?”
Your voice almost pained.
A word was all it took. Bucky was back on his knees.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted it to go away, honey. I’m sorry.”
Go away? You quirked a brow and couldn’t hold his gaze much longer; just trailed your vision down his torso to his pants, then his erection, still standing prominent as ever.
Bucky struggled to decide whether you were ticked off or intrigued, seeing your eyes make their painful appraisal of his length beneath his pants. Your brow was pinched, but your head was cocked. Almost curious.
“Are you mad at me?” you asked, gaze fixed on the spot.
Immediately, Bucky rose to his feet and crawled back on the bed, seizing your body with both of his hands.
“No! No, not mad at all,” he mumbled as he sidled up beside you. Pleased to see you hadn’t recoiled, “I was just, uh…missing you, ‘s’all.”
If his men could see him now, Bucky was sure he’d be the laughing stock of all the town. Doting and kind, eyes softened beyond recognition, he just watched you and wanted nothing more than to repair the smile that had ebbed from your face. Come ridicule, hell, or high water, the man was infatuated with his bride—all broken plates and attempted window escapes be damned.
Presently, you brought your hand down to his bulge.
Bucky stiffened but didn’t speak. He wanted you to do this on your own, of your own volition.
“You seem kinda mad to me.” You hardly knew what you were doing. Just rubbing his length and hoping it was something he’d like.
Where Bucky had wanted to see you smile, you just wanted to hear him grunt and whine—maybe grab your hips and beg you to do something, please. You’d never felt any such degree of control, and you suspected Bucky had never not felt it himself. You wanted him desperate.
You were playing a dangerous game, you knew it, but something inside those baby blues said he wanted to do it, too. Do anything for you, quite frankly.
You watched the rise and fall of Bucky’s broad chest and stroked his length even softer.
“James.”
“Uh-huh?” His mouth hung open with a gentle grunt, fighting every instinct to buck into your touch.
At last, you squeezed his shaft and prodded him on. Let your head drift closer to his so his lips would graze the apple of your cheek, and just when you sensed he wanted a taste, you tilted your face toward his own,
“We haven’t even kissed since the ceremony.”
Bucky stared blankly at you, enrapt with the pulse of your fingers. You could tell he was aching to move.
“Oh yeah?” he murmured.
You nodded a wordless affirmation and slid sharply back in bed as Bucky lunged after you. Your hands flew from his pants to the plush mattress behind you as you shifted—or, rather, scrambled—back in place and felt your husband climb over you hungrily.
“That what my wife wants?” he murmured, frame slotting tight between your legs.
You nodded again, and had only to suck in a breath before Bucky was devouring your lips. The kind of flushed, frantic, filthy kiss that would’ve doubtlessly wrought looks of horror on every face at your wedding had he grabbed you that way after the declarations of ‘I do’ had been spoken.
You loved him like this, impassioned and a bit unhinged.
His tongue worked his way past your lips and scoured every soft, fleshy inch between the insides of your cheeks before he took your face in his hands, kissing you roughly.
Something hard and throbbing nudged your sex, and suddenly you were whining in his mouth. Wrapping your legs around his waist.
“Ah, honey, don’t,” Bucky groaned, visibly straining to contain himself. When you dug your heels even deeper in his back, the groan that followed from him was hoarse and guttural.
“I thought— I…fuck,” your husband turned his head to curse as you grinded your hips up to his. You had to bite back a smile.
“I just wanna do what married people do,” you murmured coyly, pretending not to see when Bucky shot you the most red-hot, wanton look he’d imparted all evening.
“Yeah?” Like a kid in a candy shop the size of Sears.
Bucky took your face in his hands once more and made sure to scan your expression for any shred of doubt. On finding nothing there, he sat panting, half-disbelieving and half-contemplating all the wretched things he wanted to do to you. You squeezed his sides with your thighs and just hoped your husband knew what to do, because, in truth, you didn’t have the first fucking idea.
A few dry, clinical terms flashed before your mind’s eye, along with your mother’s bleak depiction of what treatment lay in store for a woman on her wedding night, and as Bucky started to work his belt and his pants off, you just hoped he wouldn’t be cruel.
He couldn’t be, right? He’d only mowed down a hundred men and dismembered dozens more, you were told, but surely a set of eyes this soft, caring, and kind couldn’t belong to a monster. You let him lift your hips and shimmy your panties, garter belt, and stockings down your legs, and when he returned, you tried your best not to betray the thoughts in your head.
Bucky hadn’t been with a virgin for as long as he could remember—maybe ever. His own ‘deflowering’ an ancient relic of his boyhood and the multitude of partners since then a mere flurry of nameless faces, he sincerely couldn’t recall a time when he’d asked, or cared, whether the woman beneath him had her cherry intact. He didn’t suppose it could be too different, as he peeled the last pieces of your lingerie set off your body and saw you seemed perfectly ready. He ran a finger between your folds and felt you shiver with what looked like excitement. Piece of cake, he thought, smiling.
No doubt he would take great joy in making you his own. His bride, his wife, an unblemished beacon of light in a life as sordid as his, looked perfect spread before him. You would adjust to his size. Bucky trailed the head of his cock up your slit and coated himself in your juices, and just when he’d bracketed his other arm around your head on the pillow, you let out a small sound.
“Are you sure it’ll fit?”
Bucky fisted his length and pressed the tip to your entrance.
“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I think so.”
He hadn’t yet met a woman who wasn’t able to fit him.
“Okay.”
Somehow, your voice sounded even smaller, head lodged between pillows and the crook of Bucky’s elbow. You felt small. Frankly, it didn’t seem like your husband was quite computing the worries that were pervading your brain, but you decided he knew best—your mother had assured you that husbands always did—and when Bucky first pressed the head of himself to the seam of your cunt, you hardly even whimpered.
You watched his brow furrow above you. He tried to go further.
Your folds were as soaked as he’d ever seen a woman’s, your hole practically pulsing with desire, and somehow, he couldn’t push in.
Bucky snagged his lip between his teeth and braced himself with the aid of the headboard, taking your hip in his other hand. A breath sounded on your lips the second he adjusted, and shortly thereafter, he felt your gaze on the same place he was watching: the spot where your bodies were trying to connect.
His features darkened at the prospect of failing, or even appearing incompetent to you in the slightest. He’d done this hundreds of times before, why wouldn’t it work?
When he felt your eyes trail back up his body and study his face—maybe wondering why her new groom hadn’t gotten around to thrusting into her yet, he thought—he felt a swell of panic and pushed.
Against his better judgment and the feel of your body, he muscled his way through and forced his cock inside. Bottoming out in a single, stabbing thrust.
You seized in pain but wanted to be a good wife for him.
Bucky, too, felt his hips stutter at the resistance your walls were giving him, but then remembered how he’d sworn to be a dutiful husband, and kept going.
Together, you stared anywhere but the other’s face and gritted your teeth for two entirely different reasons—you, in agony, and Bucky, in ecstasy, the latter hoping with everything in him that you liked this as much as him.
Bucky took a tender, if not slightly awkward, rhythm rutting against your body and stared steady at the headboard like he always did.
You were in pain and faced with nothing but his hulking chest, moving up and down, back and forth, over and over again like a goddamn seesaw from hell while it felt like your insides were presently being torn to shreds.
Who fucking enjoys this? you wanted to wail, but feigned a moan instead, raking your nails down Bucky’s back, Why isn’t he looking at me? Why isn’t he touching me?
Your walls involuntarily clenched around him, and he swallowed a moan.
Just think of baseball, beer, math, the Roman Empire, anything to keep from busting right now, Bucky told himself as he clenched his jaw and fought to maintain his pace. Your pussy just felt so. fucking. good.
Beneath him, you had tried and failed to fight back tears. The burn was just too much; the longer he thrusted, the more your walls contracted, and confusingly, stupidly, it seemed like he was using you. Your mother was right, most likely, that sex was just a means to an end for men like Bucky, and your husband didn’t care about your pleasure at all. You fought hard to keep the waterworks at bay, that one thing you hadn’t wanted Bucky to see, but eventually, the tears were flowing freely.
You stifled a sob that your husband mistook for a moan.
He fucked you even faster and felt a grin start to twitch at the corners of his lips when you made a sound that seemed consistent with pleasure.
“Feel so fucking tight,” Bucky grunted, about to lower his gaze to your face for the first time since he’d entered you, “So nice and tight and w—hey, hey, baby?”
He stilled inside as soon as he saw that you were crying. Took your face in his hands and almost couldn’t believe the sight of your tear-stained cheeks beneath him.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, scanning your face for any signs of harm.
You just shook your head and tried to brush him off.
“Keep going, I’m good.”
Bucky seemed angered at the suggestion. He brought your face closer to his and stared almost reproachfully down at you. Then he paused a beat and swiped one of your cheeks with the pad of his thumb.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked.
“N—”
“Don’t lie.”
You squirmed a bit and winced. That was answer enough for Bucky, and he slowly pulled out of you.
“Aw hell.”
The two of you glanced down to see a blooming red spot on the comforter. Bucky rubbed the blood in disbelief.
He’d gone too far. Again. Hurt something inside of you that couldn’t be fixed with a kiss. While you struggled to sit up among the pillows, Bucky was running a hand through his hair and cursing himself up and down.
“Why didn’t you say something?” he scowled.
“I didn’t wanna interrup—”
“If I’m making you bleed, you stop me, for fuck’s sake.”
“Well you seemed to be having a pretty good time!”
Bucky didn’t need to tell you in words what was painted on his face; he was pissed off and probably bound to slip off the bed any second, when your tears started welling up again. Then he eased off, remembering he was more mad at himself than anyone else, and slid closer to you. He tried pulling you into his chest, but you didn’t budge.
“C’mon,” you said, grabbing his wrist, “Let’s keep going.”
Bucky eyed you incredulously.
“Nuh-uh.”
“Uh-huh,” you insisted. He shot you a glare but didn’t protest when you guided his hand between your legs.
You were spread back open for him in no time. Still stinging like hell and ready for another go. Bucky almost couldn’t believe it.
“My headstrong wife.” He managed a smile before kissing the crown of your head, and kept right on kissing that spot no matter how far his fingers were traveling.
“You owe me two orgasms, remember, Mr. Barnes?”
It seemed Bucky’s boastful claims of late were in fact the furthest thing from his mind as he crawled back over your body. He pried your knees apart and left just enough room for his frame, taking his fingers to your folds and rubbing in light, gentle circles.
The bleeding had stopped. What little remained was long forgotten, and duly, the pain from recent memory was slowly but surely purged with every flick of his thumb. Bucky planted an arm next to your head and kept touching you there until your face relaxed completely.
When he chanced a finger inside, he was careful not to rub so much as plunge in quick, shallow motions, and at the first signs of pleasure, press light and tender kisses on your skin.
“If it hurts at all, you tell me.”
He sounded stern as he inserted another finger, but really, the man was all putty in your hands, wanting to please you and tease you in any way that he could.
When you told him faster, he sped up; you gripped his hair and said slow down, he did the same. He curled his digits in time with every whimper and moan you made and took care not to be too harsh on your sweet spot.
The only time he paused was when you looked up and asked him point-blank: could he fuck you sweet and gentle now?
Bucky paused. Swallowed.
The man would’ve screwed you six ways to Sunday if you asked him; that wasn’t the problem. The only traces of hesitation remained where your eyes said something different. Even as he shuffled between your legs at your behest, aligned his cock with your entrance, and felt a wave of desire wash over him, he pressed his forehead to yours and searched your glossy gaze once more.
“You sure about this, bunny?” he murmured.
Your heart melted at the name. You couldn’t deny you were frightened, and perhaps a bit worse for the wear after your last attempt, but his words were a comfort, his hand on your cheek a welcome gesture. When his thumb grazed your lips, you kissed it and nodded.
“Alright sweet girl,” Bucky said, tone laced with affection.
This time, before pressing the head of himself inside, Bucky caught your lips and kissed you softly. Rubbed himself up and down your slit—paying extra attention to your clit—and coated himself completely before trying to penetrate you again.
Your cheeks flushed, and you kissed him harder.
“P-please, Bucky, fuck me,” you murmured against his mouth, eliciting a small grunt from him.
“Yeah? You want your husband’s cock inside you, doll?” He kept the pretense of teasing, but really, he was just trying to make sure you wanted this as badly as he did. By the blissed out look on your face and the soft, ceaseless squelching noises produced by your arousal, he got the message pretty quickly.
He breached your folds with just the tip at first. You both felt your muscles contract. Instead of blindly pushing ahead like he had before, Bucky trained his gaze on your face and watched for any signs of discomfort.
“Everything okay, bunny?” he hummed as he brushed a few strands of hair from your face.
You were half in awe of how attentive he was, and doubly impressed by the stretch that followed—like a pinch, but nothing like the pain you’d felt before. You peered up at your husband and squeezed his shoulders.
“It— it doesn’t hurt this time,” you said, breathless.
Bucky could’ve caved at the sweet, innocent expression alone—like you were pleasantly surprised this hadn’t caused excruciating pain—and his lips moved down to pepper your cheeks with kisses again.
“Doll, I’m so sorry.”
The sounds and sighs of your pleasure beneath him, along with the words telling him it was okay, really, he hadn’t meant to do it, all made him feel even guiltier for having hurt you in the first place. It took him some time assailing your face with tiny, apologetic kisses before he even thought to feed you another inch.
When he finally plunged himself deeper, it wasn’t without your express permission; even then, Bucky feared he might split you in two.
The whole time he eased himself inside, he was moving his gaze between your face and the place between your two bodies—watching you open for him and take him inch by inch. He rubbed his thumb over your clit when you whimpered.
“Doing so good for me.”
“Stretching so nice for this cock.”
“My beautiful, beautiful wife.”
Every syllable of his praises flooded your head like honey. Feeling him stretch you out, fill you up, and rock you softly with his first shallow thrusts, all while talking you through it, had your mind ablaze and near-euphoric.
Pleasure practically searing your veins, you didn’t even hear yourself, or really mean to say it, as soon as you did.
“This doesn’t feel dirty at all.”
An epiphany to you and a puzzle to Bucky.
“What’s’at, honey?” He was still rutting his hips and slowly picking up speed. Your husband groaned when you clenched around him and pulled him even deeper—before you realized what you’d said.
Your cheeks flushed.
“I— I was always told sex made you dirty. This feels—” you stopped to swallow a moan when Bucky grazed a particularly sensitive spot inside you, “pretty nice.”
‘Pretty nice.’ Your husband couldn’t help the smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he leaned down to kiss you. He wrapped his big, muscly arms around you and pulled you closer to his chest.
“Makes you dirty?” Bucky said, disbelief evident in his tone before his smile broke into a grin, “Baby, you’re the cleanest, sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He didn’t let you endeavor to protest, just buried his face in your neck and pressed teasing kisses all over the skin while he continued to pump in and out of you. He knew to keep hitting that spot, too.
You were drowning in whimpers and kisses when Bucky brought his lips to your ear.
“Doesn’t make you dirty at all,” he assured you, “Just makes you my wife.”
You clawed Bucky’s back when he sped up a little, and you felt the pleasure soar to even greater heights when he propped your legs above his shoulders—a brand new angle for him to bend you like a pretzel and fuck you good.
“You take this cock too nice to be dirty,” he gritted his teeth and continued to soothe you just how he knew you liked it, “Such a good little wife, sucking up every inch of me like you were made for it.”
Your lips parted in a soft ‘o,’ feeling him plunge the depths of your cunt like he never had before. Bucky slipped his thumb in your mouth while he held your face.
“That what you are, bunny? A good girl?”
You nodded your head and sucked his thumb, feeling yourself fucked dumb as you did. Bucky loved that blissed out look in your eyes.
“Good girl for daddy?” he cooed.
Your ankles trembled around his neck as soon as he said it. You nodded again, yes, you were, and felt a light coil start to form in your lower stomach as Bucky kept pounding you and pushing his thumb between your lips.
Then, with a pop, he plucked the digit from your mouth and brought it down to your clit. He started soft at first, but before long he was rubbing vicious circles on that little bundle of nerves, watching you come undone before his eyes and clench around him even tighter.
“B-Bucky,” you whined, fisting the sheets underneath you both as you squirmed.
“Mhmm?” Your husband pretended to be oblivious.
“I w— I’m gonna—” The words could scarcely leave your lips without finding themselves punctured with a whimper as soon as they were spoken. Bucky thrusted harder.
“Gonna what? Cum for daddy?” he grinned, “Make a mess all over this cock?”
Your moans of pleasure more than sufficed for an answer. You nodded and winced, felt your whole lower half seize with a warm and heady feeling, and before you knew it, Bucky’s thrusts were sending you spiraling over the edge, with a wave of bliss following shortly behind. Sounds of skin slapping skin hardly faltered, and Bucky kept rubbing and fucking you all throughout the waves of your high.
Tears sprung to your eyes, and you didn’t care. Your mind was alight with more bright, fervid feelings than you could count or comprehend, and your body washed over with pleasure.
You clung to Bucky and felt him keep fucking you, even as you shrieked against his skin.
“One more for me, honey.”
You didn’t think that was possible. You had just spilled all over him, squeezing his cock like a vice and screaming his name, and now he wanted it all over again? So soon?
Your fingernails sunk into his arms as he continued to rut into you, and you started to shake your head.
“C-Can’t Bucky, I can’t, I can’t,” you sobbed, tears still streaming down your cheeks.
“Sure you can.”
Your husband had his mouth at your ear again, panting as the pace of his thrusts grew faster. He tilted his body slightly forward so your legs were pushed even higher above you—damn near grazing either side of your head—and pounded you relentlessly.
His voice seemed so calm and assured as he spoke,
“Cum for daddy. Show me just how fucking good this cock makes you feel and cum again for me.”
With a command like that, how could you refuse?
You came a second time, hands seizing Bucky's forearms, and screams tearing through your chest as you rode your high impaled on his cock over and over again. The sights and sounds and repeated, pulsing spasms of your pussy on his shaft sent Bucky chasing his release not long after, and you felt a warmth spread inside you.
Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, your cheeks practically drenched already. As you came down from your high, you started to blink.
But just as you lifted a hand to sop up the moisture, Bucky was leaning over you and into you with the brightest smile. Then he was kissing each wet, salty stain like it was the most natural thing in the world, sponging soft and gentle touches all over the spots your tears had overflown.
It seemed every nerve ending in your lower half was on the fritz, your body little more than mush underneath him, but somehow you managed to catch his mouth as he traversed the skin. You kissed him back, and Bucky drew you closer.
The two of you separated for a second, Bucky’s cock still resting comfortably inside you and his broad frame engulfing you in bed. He paused a beat. Seemed to consider something in his mind before speaking aloud.
“Honey,” he started, unsure of how he wanted to say this.
You peered up at him, curious. His seed had filled every contour and crevice of your aching walls and was just then starting to dribble out of you. Bucky seemed unfazed. He cupped both hands around your face.
“I love you.”
You blinked. No fucking way you were hearing those words.
“What?” You felt too awestruck to say anything else.
“I love you,” Bucky repeated. A smile was starting to tug at his lips, his thumb tracing your cheek while you stared at him in disbelief.
You would’ve liked to speak.
Would’ve loved to say those three little words right back.
In fact, you had just opened your mouth to tell him that, when a sound at the foot of the bed startled you both.
The warm glow of moonlight pouring in from the window panes was your only means to see it. But sight wasn’t worth much at all when a man appeared and pressed the barrel of a gun to Bucky’s temple, letting out a chuckle.
Another man, clad head-to-toe in polished black tactical gear approached from the far end of the room. Bucky gritted his teeth but remained motionless, hearing that man cock his firearm as well. You were surrounded on either side of the bed. Your blood ran cold.
“Sorry to interrupt the fun, Mr. Barnes,” the man on the left spoke so low and gruff he could scarcely be heard.
When Bucky started to stir, the man on the right raised his pistol as well. Curled his finger on the trigger.
“We haven’t even met your beautiful bride.” A set of cruel, glinting teeth turned in your direction. Suddenly, all eyes were trained on you—along with a third handgun, pointed at your head, as another man approached.
“Wedded bliss treating you well so far, Mrs. Barnes?”
pairing: mafia boss!bucky barnes x mafia princess!female reader
summary: you're still acclimating to life as the wife of the bratva's white wolf, and when your husband buys you some lingerie, it becomes an unexpected tipping point in your relationship.
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), arranged marriage, reader demonstrates trauma responses and has anxiety from past familial verbal abuse (not explicitly shown, just implied), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, dry sex, possessive sex, mirror sex, creampie, bdsm dynamics (gentle dom Bucky Barnes, talk of punishments, consent checks/reassurances), choking, biting, roughness, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names (moya zhena - my wife, moya koroleva - my queen, baby), aftercare, lots of feelings, some angst, some fluff, happy ending
word count: 6.3k
a/n: for week 7 of @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event, y'all voted for me to use the optional prompt of lingerie—and i'm quite happy with how this one turned out! it's a bit...darker and more different in some ways than most of my fics, but it was cathartic to write. there's more build-up to the sex in this fic because the dynamic between these two was so important to establish, but i enjoyed it, so i hope y'all do too! please make sure to read the warnings! enjoy ♡
prompt: “Put this on.” | [Blindfolds | Lingerie | Gag/Collars]
Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist
“Put this on.”
The order pulled your attention from the mirror of your vanity, where you were putting the final touches on your jewelry for the evening. Your makeup was already done, all that was left was to get dressed.
And it seemed your new husband, the notorious head of the Russian mafia in New York City, the feared White Wolf—James “Bucky” Barnes—had opinions on what exactly you’d wear to your cousin’s birthday party.
You’d tensed at his sudden appearance in your bedroom and, immediately, you tried to parse his tone to determine whether he was angry with you—or frustrated, or irritated, or annoyed, or anything else that might mean you were in for trouble.
It was a habit you’d formed while growing up in your father’s household, where quickly figuring out a man’s tone could be the difference between escape and something much worse. The habit had become so ingrained, you hardly recognized yourself doing it anymore.
But like every other time Bucky had issued a command for you, you couldn’t quite read his tone.
Your husband’s voice when he spoke to you wasn’t overly warm, but it wasn’t cold either. He sounded like a man used to people doing what he said, so much so that he was almost…bored of it.
You didn’t know exactly what that meant, but you’d long ago learned that if a man in the mafia gave you an order, you followed it as fast as possible.
So while you were thinking all this through, you’d grabbed the luxurious paper bag your husband had held out to you and headed toward your walk-in closet. The dress you’d chosen for the party was already hanging up, ready for you to put on, but you’d wear whatever Bucky told you to wear.
It was your job, after all, to keep the peace between your family and Bucky’s Bratva. It was the whole point of your marriage to the White Wolf—and part of keeping that peace meant your husband would accompany you to parties hosted by your father, like the celebration that evening.
Scurrying inside the closet with the bag, you paused and marveled all over again at the sheer size of the room.
Like everything else in Bucky’s home, it was opulent and gorgeous, with clean white surfaces and dark brown wooden accents. There were multiple full-length mirrors and, alongside the racks and shelves holding your clothes and shoes, the space was big enough to fit a few ottomans, chairs and benches, all upholstered with the same sumptuous pink velvet.
Before you could turn and close the door, Bucky’s voice broke through your thoughts.
“Let me see how it looks before you put your dress on.”
You’d assumed the garment he’d given you was a dress, so his words sent a little tremble down your spine when you realized they meant something else was in the bag. Still, you gave your husband a quick nod over your shoulder and shut the door to your closet.
Despite the trepidation you felt, your curiosity was piqued, and you peered into the bag. Under layers of soft tissue paper, you discovered something silky, lacy and beautiful.
Heat filled your cheeks as you pulled out the expensive lingerie and held it carefully in your hands. The matching set was exquisite, and nicer than anything you’d owned in your entire life—which was saying something since you’d never wanted for anything.
Excited to wear something so beautiful, you put it on quickly. Once done, you had to stop and stare at yourself in one of the full-length mirrors.
The warm recessed lighting in the closet shone on your body, giving you a perfect view of everywhere the lingerie clung to your skin. The silk and lace hugged your curves lovingly, like the garment was tailor-made to your body, the color complementing your skin tone perfectly.
It suddenly occurred to you that your husband, the Bratva boss you’d been taught to fear, had hand-picked this lingerie for you. He must’ve even given the seamstress your measurements so that it fit you so well.
The thought of Bucky going to all that trouble and doing all that for you had warmth blooming in your core, a soft throbbing beginning between your thighs.
Your husband didn’t seem much like the mean, cruel man you’d expected when you married him. On your wedding night, when you’d consummated your marriage, Bucky had been patient, gentle even. Until he’d been unable to help himself, and then he’d fucked you like a man possessed.
But you’d enjoyed seeing the tightly controlled mafia man let loose. It had felt like you’d seen a side to him no one else ever had. And, even more, you’d enjoyed the way he’d made you unravel beneath him. He’d worked your body better than you’d ever thought possible, making you feel unspeakable pleasure.
In fact, in the few weeks since that night, you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about your husband, about his handsome face and his skillful hands.
You had to keep reminding yourself that just because you knew him intimately, it didn’t mean you truly knew him. Or that you could trust that he was what he appeared to be—a kinder, gentler mafia boss than you’d ever known. But he kept surprising you.
After your wedding night, Bucky had gifted you your own suite of rooms within his sprawling mansion, and it was there that you slept, in your own space separate from him. Occasionally, he came to you in the darkest hours of the night, asking for your consent before fucking you just as good as that first time.
But he never fell asleep with you, which felt like a sign that he wanted nothing more than an alliance with your family and an infrequent bedmate.
Which meant that on the nights he didn’t come to you, you found yourself tossing and turning, forced to pleasure yourself while only the memories of your husband could get you to completion.
It occurred to you that you could go to him, but that seemed like too much of a risk. To ask your husband for anything meant trusting him with your honesty, and you’d never dare do that. Not when you still didn’t know for certain how he felt about you.
Much of your time in the weeks since your wedding to the White Wolf had been spent trying to puzzle out his feelings for you, all while you’d been keeping your own emotions buried deep in your heart. It felt too dangerous to admit, even to yourself, that you’d grown…fond of your husband.
But seeing the beautiful lingerie Bucky had chosen meticulously for you had an effect on the impenetrable walls around your heart. It almost felt like something inside you cracked open a tiny bit, and you found yourself rubbing idly at your chest, a warmth blooming beneath your sternum that scared you a little.
With a jolt of awareness, you realized you’d been lingering in your closet longer than you’d meant to, and you checked the time on your phone. Cursing to yourself, you realized you’d taken too long putting on the lingerie.
If you didn’t get dressed right away, you and Bucky would be late to the party, and that would not be tolerated by your father.
Forgetting the second order your husband gave you, you grabbed the dress you’d set aside for the party and shimmied into it, quickly zipping it up as much as you could as you stepped into a pair of matching high heels. Walking out of the closet, you were still fiddling with the zipper when you came to an abrupt halt at the look on Bucky’s face.
He was standing closer to the door of the closet than you’d expected, and his blue eyes were bright with an unreadable expression as they swept up your body. You skin warmed at the way he took in your calves and the shape of your thighs, then the way your legs disappeared beneath the hem of your dress.
“I gave you an instruction, moya zhena,” Bucky rumbled, in that same indecipherable tone he always seemed to use with you, though you detected something like curiosity in it. “Why did you not follow it?”
Your heart jumped up into your throat as you recognized your error; your first instinct was to cower away from your husband and beg for forgiveness. But when your eyes flitted frantically across his face and down to his shoulders, you were surprised to find he wasn’t angry.
Bucky was relaxed, his shoulders loose and sloped, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. His expression held no hint of fury at your disobedience, just a quiet interest as he waited for your answer.
You were so disarmed by Bucky’s reaction, you blurted out the truth.
“We’re going to be late,” you said, and despite your best efforts, you heard a slight waver in your tone.
Bucky’s eyes flashed, his gaze darting to your mouth for a moment before returning to yours. You couldn’t read his expression, which didn’t do anything to help the anxiety churning in your belly.
“My father doesn’t tolerate lateness.” As you spoke, you looked toward the door, and shifted your weight from one foot to the other.
You knew how your father would act if you and Bucky were late—you’d been on the receiving end of his verbal lashings and punishments enough times to know all too well. So you hoped your husband would take the hint and allow you to leave quickly.
A rumbling sound caught your attention, and your racing thoughts came to a halt as you glanced back at Bucky, who was looking decidedly more deadly, even though nothing in his posture had shifted.
He still looked calm and at ease, and something about it settled you, even as you picked up on his anger. Instinctively, you knew it wasn’t directed at you.
“You no longer live under his command, moya koroleva,” Bucky said, his voice infinitesimally softer than you’d ever heard it. He prowled closer to you, his gait as slow and careful as a predator stalking some exceptionally skittish prey. “You are my wife, and he cannot touch you—he cannot punish you.”
Something in your belly swooped, warmth blooming between your thighs even as your knees trembled. Bucky’s voice held so much self-assuredness, and possessiveness, that you almost believed him. You almost believed you were free of your father’s rule.
Then Bucky smirked, the curve of his mouth as sharp as the blade of a knife. “That’s my job.”
Horror rushed through you at his words, since it suddenly occurred to you that you might’ve been wrong about your husband. You’d thought him different from your father, but if he was speaking of punishments—of punishing you—then perhaps they were more alike than you’d thought.
On instinct, you took a step back.
Bucky went still, this smirk slipping from his face. He was close enough to reach for you, but his hands remained in his pockets. The only movement was the slight tilting of his head as he studied you closely.
“Do you trust me, moya zhena?” he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.
You’d thought you might—one day—but in that moment, you didn’t think so. And for some reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to lie to your husband and tell him you did. So what you settled on was, “‘No’ feels like the wrong answer.”
Bucky’s eyes sparkled with humor and the edges of his mouth flickered as if he wanted to smile but was restraining himself. He took another step toward you, this time moving even slower than he had before, as if trying not to scare you.
Then, he pulled a hand from his pocket, his movements slow and deliberate as he reached for you. You let his fingers catch your chin in a firm grip and hold you so that you could nothing but stare into his eyes.
Your husband had beautiful blue eyes, and a handsome face that was typically all sharp edges, though in that moment he seemed somehow gentler. Despite your anxiety, you softened slightly into his grip, something instinctual in your body deciding Bucky wasn’t a threat—at least for the moment.
“The truth is never the wrong answer,” he said, his thumb sweeping just below your lower lip. His eyes darkened as he watched the path it traced against your skin, and you could feel him getting distracted by your mouth.
But his words had you pressing your lips into a thin line. You couldn’t believe a mafia boss as feared as the Bratva’s White Wolf could be so naive as to think lies weren’t the currency of the world you both lived in, even within families—even within marriages.
“In my experience, it often is,” you said, choosing your words carefully so you didn’t disrespect your husband and add another infraction to your record for that night.
Bucky’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and he stared at you so intensely, you wanted to shift uncomfortably on your feet. But you knew your husband well enough to know he’d catch the movement and know what it meant. So you kept your expression blank and held yourself still. You’d had enough practice in your life to hide your reactions well.
Still, somehow you sensed that Bucky could read every thought as it passed through your head and every emotion that swept through your heart. It rattled you more than you cared to admit, even to yourself.
It was almost a relief when, after a moment of charged silence, Bucky spoke.
“How about this, an addendum to our wedding vows,” he said, his voice calculatingly thoughtful as he watched for your reaction.
He must’ve liked the way your eyes flicked to his, and must’ve seen the curiosity in your gaze, because he went on. “You may lie to anyone—to everyone else, if you so wish. But never to me.”
You blinked in surprise, trying to process his words, trying to root out their hidden meaning. There must be a trick or a trap, but you couldn’t find one. And Bucky kept talking before you could ask any questions that might help you discern his secret agenda.
“If you promise never to lie to me, I vow that I will never punish you for telling the truth.”
You were quiet for a long moment, absorbing Bucky’s words and looking for the trap in them. It took an embarrassingly long moment for you to realize what was right in front of you—it wasn’t a trick. He was asking you to trust him, and he was offering his trust in return.
Even as the thought occurred to you, though, you shoved it aside, believing it impossible. Bratva men like the White Wolf didn’t offer an equal exchange of trust, they ruled with an iron fist. In your life, you’d seen the fear men wielded, especially over the women in their lives.
There wasn’t much trust in the mafia. There was dominance and submission, fear and power. Loyalty was taken through the threat of violence, or the threat violence upon someone you cared about.
So, it was with a desire not to be punished that you agreed to Bucky’s offer.
“OK,” you said simply, meeting your husband’s gaze. When he raised his eyebrow and tilted his head, silently urging you on, you continued, “I promise never to lie to you, husband.”
Bucky nodded, accepting your answer, though his eyes looked stormy and conflicted. Although you’d given him what he’d asked for, he didn’t seem entirely pleased.
He stepped back, his hand dropping from your face, and you found you missed the warmth of his touch. You missed the spiciness of his cologne, and the way his presence had wrapped around you like a cloak of comfort.
Before you could examine those thoughts further, Bucky gripped your shoulder and deftly spun you around on your heels, his big hand falling to the small of your back. He propelled you gently, but firmly, into your walk-in closet, stopping you in front of one of the large ottomans in the center of the room.
It was plush and circular, with a full-length mirror on the wall on the opposite side of the room. In it, you could see the way you stood with your shoulders huddled, your body dwarfed by the broadness of your husband at your back.
“Do you care about this dress?” Bucky asked, his hands sliding up your shoulders until his thumbs rested against your spine where the zipper was still partially undone.
The feeling of his fingers on your bare skin sent tingles of pleasure skittering down your spine, and it took all your self-control not to shiver under the delightful weight of your husband’s hands.
“I—”
It occurred to you to lie, but when you caught Bucky’s eye in the mirror, you sensed he’d know somehow. And it seemed like such an easy thing to tell the truth about, that you didn’t want to risk angering him so soon.
“Yes, it’s one of my favorites.”
Bucky gave another nod, and his fingers squeezed your shoulders lightly, as if rewarding you for your honesty. Then he pulled down the zipper and peeled the dress off your body until it pooled on the plush carpet at your feet.
Instinctively, your arms lifted to cover yourself, forgetting that your husband had seen you naked on plenty enough occasions. But those had all been in your bed under much more forgiving lighting.
Bucky growled a quick, “Don’t,” and you jerked your arms back to your sides.
“Good girl.”
His gruff praise slid down your spine and settled heavily between your thighs, but you were too focused on watching what he was doing to question your reaction.
Bucky knelt down and picked up your dress with careful fingers, finding a hanger and hanging it back up before returning his attention to you.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice so low and rough it reminded you of the way he’d speak to you in bed, when he was buried inside you, urging your body to meet his own so that you could both find your pleasure.
Slightly distracted by the faint pulsing between your thighs, you turned to face your husband, your eyes finding his and watching him closely.
Bucky’s gave swept a slow perusal of your body, lingering on the way the lingerie he’d given you hugged your tits and cupped your mound, accentuating all your curves and swathing your body in luxurious, satiny lace. Your husband’s eyes seemed to darken the longer he looked at you, his pupils blowing wide.
“How does it feel?” he asked, his voice so impossibly gruff, it took you a moment to understand his question.
“It…it feels good,” you answered honestly, still getting used to telling your husband the truth, though it was getting easier. “It makes me feel…pretty.”
“Pretty—fuck that, you’re gorgeous, moya zhena,” Bucky rasped, dragging his eyes up to yours.
Your breath caught in your throat at the sheer intensity in your husband’s gaze.
“This is all I wanted,” he went on. “I wanted to see you like this, wearing the lingerie I bought for you, before we went to the party.”
He stepped closer and you swayed slightly on your feet, your body yearning for him like a flower longs for the sun.
“I wanted to have this memory of you in my mind when we went to the party and know I’m the only man who will ever see you like this, looking more beautiful than the moon and stars—looking like mine.”
You sucked in a sharp gasp, the sound loud in the quiet of the walk-in closet, which suddenly felt too small, even as Bucky felt too far away.
Heat flooded your core at your husband’s words, and the ravenous hunger beneath them. Perhaps because of the tenuous trust between you and Bucky, or because you couldn’t seem to help yourself around your husband, your body responded to his possessiveness with a hungry ache of its own.
“But you tried to deprive me of this vision of beauty,” Bucky continued, prowling toward you, making your heart skip a beat with excitement. “And that I can’t abide.”
When he reached for you, spinning you around again until you faced the mirror and he was holding you gently but firmly, whatever unease you’d felt that evening evaporated entirely. All you could feel was a need thrumming beneath your skin, one you were certain only he could sate.
“I’m not going to hurt you, moya zhena,” he said, holding your gaze unwaveringly in the mirror. He paused, waiting until you nodded your understanding before he went on. “But I am going to make sure you feel me all night—and never forget who you belong to.”
A beat passed, and it took you a long moment to realize Bucky was giving you a chance to escape whatever he planned to do to you. You surprised yourself when you didn’t take it. Instead you nodded, watching Bucky’s eyes darken in his reflection, the corners of his mouth curling into a pleased smirk.
With Bucky’s promise hanging heavy in the air between you, he guided you down onto the ottoman, his touch gentle and firm as he arranged you on your hands and knees. You heard him undo his zipper, and felt his knuckles brush against your ass as he pumped his cock to full hardness.
Despite everything that had happened that evening, you felt yourself warming for him. Your slit dampened for your husband as if your body knew it belonged to him. It was almost dizzying, the way your heart raced excitedly, and your mind struggled to keep up.
Behind you, Bucky hooked his finger in the gusset of your panties and pulled them aside, then pressed the tip of his bare cock to your tight entrance. You were starting to be ready for him, but you weren’t nearly wet enough to take him comfortably, and it suddenly hit you what your husband planned to do.
You tensed, and looked into the mirror, catching Bucky’s eye. You could see him cataloging the range of emotions as they flitted across your face—doubt, intrigue, hunger, need. He seemed to be reassured when he didn’t see any fear in your eyes.
“I said I wouldn’t hurt you, moya zhena,” he reminded you, his tone almost kind. You swallowed and nodded at his reflection. “But I didn’t say this wouldn’t be uncomfortable.”
He pushed his hips forward, his expression heated as he watched your face go slack at the feel of him. The head of your husband’s cock was blunt and unyielding as it breached your tight hole, and you felt every thick millimeter of his tip sinking into your pussy.
A gasp caught in your throat, your breath freezing in your lungs. Your body went still as every shred of your being focused on the feeling of your husband’s cock pushing inside you. You were a little wet for him, but not nearly enough to make penetration easy—but that was exactly the point.
Bucky didn’t rush it, and true to his word, he didn’t hurt you. Once the tip of his cock pressed into your pussy, he pulled out and pushed inside again, driving the air from your lungs and forcing you to breathe again.
You felt yourself relax infinitesimally at the first sparks of pleasure, and you were rewarded by your husband stroking his hand soothingly down your spine, urging you to soften even more.
“That’s it, moya zhena, let me in,” he rumbled above you.
You lifted your head, not knowing when it had dropped between your shoulders, so you could catch his eye in the mirror. He pinned you with his gaze just as surely as he’d pinned you with his hands.
“Just breathe and take it, baby, take your husband’s cock.”
Bucky’s words had a soft moan slipping free from your lips and you settled more deeply into your position on the ottoman, your shoulders lowering and your spine arching so your ass was presented to your husband. He rumbled a pleased sound in his throat and refocused on shoving the head of his cock into your pussy.
He repeated the movement over and over again, fucking you with the tip of his hard length as you gradually opened for him. His cock slid a little bit deeper with every thrust, and you felt every delicious inch of his thick shaft stretching you bit by bit, making your tight hole take him more and more as you grew wetter and wetter for him.
When he was halfway buried inside you, the pleasurable ache of his cock pushing inside you became too much and your arms gave out. Your upper body slumped to the plush velvet ottoman, your lips falling open in a helpless moan.
Above you, Bucky chuckled, his palm stroking down your spine again before it settled possessively on your hip. You felt your husband curl over your back, his other hand tipping your face toward the mirror so you could still watch him looming over you.
“You’re doing so well for me, baby, keep your eyes on me,” he rumbled encouragingly, rocking his hips so his cock pushed even deeper inside your pussy.
Your eyes widened as the delicious stinging stretch of him plunging further inside your heat. He felt so big, so impossibly thick, it shorted out something in your mind. All you could do was take him, feel him, submit to him.
“Fuck, you feel so tight like this—you’re taking my cock so well, moya zhena.”
A sudden sob of pleasure bubbled from your lips at Bucky’s praise, your heart feeling like it was cracking open to reveal its soft, tender inside. You didn’t understand what was happening to you as tears sprang to your eyes, but your husband seemingly did.
Bucky wrapped his arms securely around your body, cooing soothing noises in your ear as he stroked your sides and your arms and everywhere he could reach. All the while, he fucked deeper into you, making you feel every solid inch of him until you were nearly overwhelmed with it—with him.
When there was only an inch left to go of his cock pushing into your pussy, Bucky murmured in your ear, “Deep breath, baby.”
Obediently, you sucked in a deep lungful of air, and Bucky plunged inside you to the hilt.
The sound that wrenched free from your throat was part devastating pleasure, part overwhelming relief. It was as if a dam broke deep in your soul at the feeling of your husband’s cock finally fully seated inside you.
Tears streamed from your eyes, and small tremors wracked your body, but before you could determine whether you’d come just from Bucky’s cock entering you completely, he was tightening his arms and hauling you up from where you’d been slumped over.
One of your husband’s hands slid around your throat, pinning your shoulders to his chest, while the other lay possessively over your lower belly, holding your body impaled on his hard length.
The change in position had Bucky’s cock slipping a little out of your tight hole. He raised a knee up onto the ottoman, pulling you back into his lap and allowing gravity to help you sink down on his shaft until he was buried to the root once again.
Then, he stared at your reflection. The image of your bodies connected, the lingerie contrasting with your skin—his cock buried in your cunt. You could feel the prickling awareness of his gaze as it caressed your curves and worshipped every inch of you.
“You are a goddess, moya zhena,” Bucky rumbled in your ear, and you lifted heavy-lidded eyes to meet his in the mirror. You found an endless well of appreciation in your husband’s gaze that would have knocked you over if he wasn’t holding you up. “You are my queen, and the only orders you obey are mine, do you understand?”
You realized, suddenly and with startling clarity, that you’d been right all along. Bucky was truly nothing like what you’d thought or expected him to be. He wasn’t cruel. He didn’t want to gain your loyalty through fear.
He wanted your trust, but he wanted it freely given. He wanted to build you up, to lend you the power he had fought for, all in exchange for simply being his.
It was almost too much for your mind to process, but your body seemed to understand, and your lips parted, spilling the words you’d learned out of curiosity about your husband and his culture.
“Yes, moy korol,” you said, holding Bucky’s gaze in the mirror.
You watched your husband’s eyes darken at your words—“my king”—a rush of pride filling your belly when a pleased smile flickered at the corners of his mouth.
“You’re learning Russian, moya zhena?” he asked, so much warmth filling his tone, he sounded nothing like the man who’d entered your bedroom earlier that evening.
“I thought it might be useful,” you dared to quip back, your voice breathless, a tentative smile on your face as you watched your husband’s reflection.
Bucky’s hand around your throat shifted, his fingertips pressing to your jaw and turning your head so he could look at you properly. He grinned down at you for a moment, affection sparkling in his bright eyes, before brushing a sweet kiss to your mouth.
It was the first time he’d kissed you that evening, and you sucked in a sharp breath of pleasure as the almost familiar taste of him burst on your lips.
“I’ll help you,” he murmured against your mouth, pressing his smile into your skin. “We’ll start tomorrow.”
You returned his smile, but before you could thank him, Bucky was pulling his hips back and driving his cock into your cunt with such a sharp slam, it had your tits bouncing and a gasp wrenching from your lips.
Both of you turned back to the mirror, watching as he did it again, making you feel every hard inch of his cock in your tight pussy. Bucky’s eyes blazed with heat as he watched your body shift and bounce in the reflection, your lips falling open on a helpless moan as you took every hard thrust.
“Fuck, moya zhena, you’re a divine vision sent from the gods to torment me,” Bucky growled, his fingers tightening around your throat as he fucked you, rumbling filthy words in your ear. “You’ve never looked more gorgeous than impaled on my cock, wearing the lingerie I bought for you—you’ve never looked more mine.”
“Bu-Bucky, oh god,” you cried, your eyes sliding closed from the pleasure of his cock spearing into you, dragging against every sensitive inch of your inner walls. He felt so big, so good, so torturously perfect inside you.
“Eyes open, baby,” Bucky commanded, biting your jaw in warning. Your eyes flew open and went straight to your husband’s face, watching the pleased smile curve his lips. “Keep those pretty eyes on me, I want to watch you come apart on my cock.”
Your gaze felt tethered to your husband’s, holding his eyes unwaveringly in the mirror as he pounded into you. Vaguely, you were aware of your face contorting with pleasure as Bucky rutted into your tight cunt, but all you could focus on was the feeling of his thick shaft inside you and the dark, feral hunger in his eyes.
It wasn’t long before Bucky’s rhythm turned harder, wilder, as he got close to his peak. Your husband’s hand slid down from your belly to find your clit, and he rubbed the delicate pearl until you were shaking and crying in his arms. Bucky’s hand tightened around your throat, choking you lightly and making your pussy pulse around his hard length.
“Come on my cock, moya koroleva, I want to feel your cunt milking me dry while I fill you with my seed,” Bucky growled, his voice gruff and nearly indiscernible. “You’re going to be dripping with my come all night at this party, feeling me between your thighs until I can get back into this pussy and pump you full again tonight.”
“Bucky!” you screamed your husband’s name as your release crashed over you, spurred by his words and his cock and his fingers on your clit. You shook wildly in his arms, your eyes nearly closing as pleasure overwhelmed you, but you managed to keep them open just enough to watch your husband lose himself in your body.
Bucky rutted into your cunt a few more times, shoving his cock deeper with every thrust, until he buried himself to the hilt. His hand squeezed your throat reflexively, and his teeth sank into your shoulder, biting down hard as he muffled a load roar against your skin.
You felt him pulse and throb in your pussy, your fluttering walls clenching around his hard length as if greedily milking the seed from his cock. The two of you coming together was a messy, beautiful thing, your sounds of pleasure filling the walk-in closet.
For a few minutes more, you writhed against each other, eking out every last ounce of pleasure from your releases as your bodies slowly calmed. Before you’d fully caught your breath, Bucky turned your face to his again so he could kiss you, and you sighed happily against your husband’s lips.
Something had shifted between the two of you—you knew it as surely as you knew you were married to the White Wolf. Bucky cared for you, he wanted you to trust him, and you wanted the same.
For the first time since you’d learned you were to be married to the head of the Bratva, you thought you might actually find some happiness with your husband. You hoped you might even find love with Bucky Barnes. It almost seemed too good to be true.
When you were both finally sated, Bucky eased his cock from your pussy as gently as possible. It still stung a little, your sensitive inner walls raw from the way he’d pushed inside you almost dry, but you welcomed the ache. You knew you’d feel your husband for the entire night, and it delighted you to no end.
“Did you hate your punishment, baby?” Bucky asked, his eyes searching your face as he helped you down from the ottoman, bearing your weight as your knees shook.
“No, moy korol,” you murmured, grabbing his hand and bringing it up to your lips. You kissed his palm, just beneath his wedding ring, and smiled serenely at him. “I like that I’ll be able to feel you all night,” you said, telling him the truth, just as you’d promised.
Bucky studied you for a moment, as if making sure you were being honest, and when he realized you were, his eyes darkened. He captured your mouth in a fierce kiss, hauling you against his chest and bending you backward with the ferocity of it, which you met with your own unfettered passion.
Once you finally parted, Bucky helped you back into your dress, and waited patiently as you fixed your makeup and your hair. He watched you with barely concealed heat in his gaze and a ghost of a smile on his lips, affection clear in every line of his face.
It settled something deep inside you to finally know how your husband felt about you, and when you were ready, you reached for him. Bucky caught your hand and tucked you into his side, holding you in such a way that you felt more safe and secure than you ever had before.
Then, you left for the party.
When you arrived, you knew you were extremely late, and some of the anxiety you’d felt earlier in the night resurfaced. You clung to Bucky’s arm as you watched your father storm over, the expression on his face so furious, it took all your self-control not to flinch.
The closer your father got, the more tightly you curled yourself around Bucky’s bicep, and your husband silently took note of your reaction. His hand covered one of yours where it was tucked into his elbow, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze that offered you strength.
“You’re late,” your father began as soon as he was close enough for his hissed words to be heard, but not overheard. Before he could continue, though, Bucky cut him off.
“Moya koroleva is never late,” he said in a voice so icy cold, it nearly sent a shiver down your spine. You’d never heard him speak to you like that, and you were glad for it, because that tone was blisteringly brutal. “We arrive precisely when we mean to.”
With that, Bucky gave your father a scathing look and swept you away into the party, getting you a drink before depositing you with some of your trusted friends and family. Then, he gave you some space to enjoy yourself, though you could always feel him hovering in your periphery.
It didn’t feel smothering, only comforting, and you were able to finally relax under your husband’s warm, watchful eye while you chatted with your loved ones.
You ended up enjoying the party, catching up with those you hadn’t seen in a while, and delighting in all the gossip you’d missed while settling into your husband’s home.
Occasionally throughout the evening, Bucky allowed you to tug him onto the dance floor. Though he dragged his feet a little, he seemed happy to have you in his arms for a little while.
When you arrived home late that night, Bucky unwrapped you like you were a gift from the gods, worshipping your body for hours with his mouth on your pussy. You were so ready when he finally slid his cock inside you, your pussy made obscene wet sounds as he buried himself to the hilt, both of you moaning at how good it felt.
Then, you enjoyed the rest of your night as husband and wife—as a king and his queen.
thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡
Summary: When a few rogue members of the Jersey syndicate snatch you from outside a nightclub, Bucky races against time to find you and bring you home.
Word Count: 4k
Content: angst, depictions of violence and death, eventual fluff, protective bucky
A/N: You know I can’t stay away from these two… there’s gonna be a fourth part eventually, I just need to put pen to paper. Eat up, my pretties <3
A call from the boss at four a.m. couldn’t be about anything good.
Bucky is already driving home from a late night of cleaning up messes, already tired down to his bones. Already thinking of his bed, warm and with you waiting for him in it.
But the phone rings, and he can somehow sense the urgency before he even picks up.
“What's up, boss?”
“Hey, Buck.” Steve's familiar voice, low and concerned, plays out of his speaker phone, surprising him. “You gotta get your ass down to central, pronto. We have an urgent situation.”
Bucky furrows his brows in confusion. “What's goin’ on? Why are you callin’ on—“
“The boss is indisposed.” There’s a rustling on the end of the line, and then Steve's voice lowers to nearly a whisper. “He’s inconsolable, Buck. Jersey’s screwin’ up. Some of Paulie's boys went rogue, somethin’ about old vendettas. They…”
A dangerous pause. Bucky waits, already feeling a dread that he doesn’t have a name for yet.
Steve sighs and comes out with it, knowing what’s going to happen once it’s spoken aloud. “Your girl’s missing.”
For five seconds, Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe. There's disbelief, there’s righteous anger, and underneath everything else, a pervasive fear that settles around his heart like ice.
Steve speaks again, a note of nerves in his voice. “Buck?”
Bucky's hands tighten on the steering wheel, his foot sinking the pedal towards the floor.
His voice is tight and clipped as he replies. “Be there in five.”
You had just wanted to go out dancing, to kill time while Bucky worked a late shift.
You went with friends. You didn’t have more than two drinks. You even picked a club that was on family turf, one of Bucky's haunts. It should have been safe.
But when you stepped outside to wait for your Uber home, there were shapes in the dark waiting for you. Looming, menacing, broad-shouldered shapes.
You knew something was wrong before they even moved towards you.
A large hand closed over your mouth to cut off your screams, an arm wrapped around your waist like a band of iron. Another man went for your legs, lifting you off the ground completely. You used every weapon you had at your disposal to fight, jabbing your heel into one man’s thigh so hard he yelled in pain, biting the other man’s hand as hard as you could and screaming bloody murder when he yanked it away.
In the end, it took four fully grown men to bind your hands, gag you, and wrestle you into the trunk of the unmarked car. You might have been proud of that if you weren’t so terrified. The black bag over your head confirmed your suspicions.
This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill attack on the street, a group of guys looking for a thrill. This was family stuff.
It didn’t make any sense. Your father promised that no one would ever even try to touch you. There was a code among made men. Daughters were sacred. Which meant these guys were stupid, crazy, or had a death wish. Maybe all three.
By the time the car arrives at whatever anonymous hideout these clowns have selected for their purposes, you’ve spat out your gag, nearly dislocated your elbow trying to wriggle out of your restraints, and gotten royally fucking pissed off.
The trunk opens again, and you’re screaming like a hellcat.
Even bound and blind, the men struggle to keep hold of you. You feel the environment change from outside to indoors, and then your ass is roughly planted in a chair.
Hands try to keep you still as your restraints are adjusted, and you keep on screaming.
“You are dead! You are so fuckin’ dead! When my father hears about this — when my man hears about this, he’s gonna make you eat your fuckin’ cazzi!”
The black bag is yanked off your head, and you squint at the sudden light change.You appear to be in some ramshackle cabin – or perhaps shack is a better descriptor, considering the condition of the room.
“Can someone please shut her up?”
As your eyes adjust, you see one of your captors leaning by the door, wincing at a line of scratches your manicure left on his forearm. Another stands directly over you, balling up the black bag in his hand and grasping your jaw roughly.
You try to wrench your face out of his grip. “You’re a fuckin’ dead man walkin’, you—“
But he forces the gag between your lips anyway, so deep into your mouth that you cough weakly around it.
“She's a real piece of work,” says the man standing over you. “You sure this is a good idea?”
The man by the door snarls, “Phil was floatin’ in the jersey river for three days because of her father. Eye for an eye.”
The man standing over you moves, approaching a rickety card table in the corner. He's rifling through something, and for a terrifying moment you wonder if he’s going for some kind of weapon. But then the angle of his body shifts, and you realize he’s going through your purse. Your indignant protests are muffled by the gag, turning whiny and pathetic.
“Mothers and daughters are off limits,” he says warily. “Everybody knows that. If Paulie finds out—“
“He’s not gonna find out,” the man by the door spits. He seems to be the brains behind the operation — ‘brains’ being a strong word, of course.
Swaggering with the unbridled confidence that only an idiot can muster, he walks towards you. “I wanna get that Brooklyn rat where it hurts.”
He stretches out a hand and takes a lock of your hair between his fingers, sneering. You jerk your head away, straining against your restraints. If looks could kill, you’d have him on the floor.
“So why not just kill her and leave her outside the club?” the other one asks, your phone and its glittering case in his hand. “What are we doin’ here? What’s the plan?”
“I’m fuckin’ improvising, okay?” Brains snaps, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “Enough with the questions. We got work to do.” Leering down at you, he purrs, “You sit tight, sweetheart.”
Then he stalks out of the room, his partner following in his wake.
For a moment there, your blood had chilled when they mentioned killing you. They could be just stupid enough to try something like that, oblivious to the kind of war that would start. Now, your pulse settles into a deadly, eerie calm, because you know something that they don’t.
Bucky is coming for you.
Bucky watches the security cam footage with his fists clenched tight. They’d pulled it from the club’s cloud an hour ago, and now it played on a loop like a nightmare. Grainy footage of you, outside the club, fighting like a wild thing as a group of men stuffed you in a trunk like so much luggage.
“She really gave ‘em hell, huh?” Steve mutters, impressed.
“‘Course she did,” Bucky replies, turning from the laptop screen. He's done watching. It's time for action.
“What do we know?” he asks.
Steve crosses his arms and begins to rattle off information. “We have positive IDs on three of them, and apparently Paulie’s been trying to talk them down for weeks. Talking big about taking a swing at the boss.”
Your father, who has been sitting silently in an office chair, tense as a coiled spring, speaks for the first time since Bucky walked into the room. “Mothers and daughters are off limits. They should fuckin’ know that.”
Suddenly, he moves, his hand swiping across the desk into a ceramic mug that goes careening to the floor and shatters.
Bucky stands stock still, wishing he had something to break.
Steve takes a beat, waiting for more, but nothing comes. So he continues, “No location. They must have shut off the tracking on her phone. But there have been… texts. It's not proof of life, but it’s somethin’.”
Bucky holds out his hand for the phone silently. Steve passes it off, and Bucky paces while he scrolls. Texts from your phone to your father’s, ominous threats and taunts. Pictures, too, blurry and tilted at odd angles. Bound hands, knees bruised and scraped to hell, the back of a head where shiny hair has tangled into knots from struggle. Undeniably you, to anyone who knows you, but Steve's right. No proof of life.
He takes a deep breath so that he doesn’t throw the phone across the room.
“I gotta think for a second,” he rasps, finding a chair and scrubbing a hand across his face.
“The longer we sit here, the more ground we lose,” your father growls, getting to his feet.
“Just gimme a second!” Bucky nearly shouts back, his heart racing even as he sits still.
Steve steps in, the voice of reason. “Easy. I know we’re all feelin’ tense, but we’re not gonna solve anything screamin’ at each other.”
While Steve continues to talk down your father, something tugs at the back of Bucky's mind. He thinks of those pictures. At some point, that phone was in the room with you, in the hands of someone who did that to you. Someone who knows where you are now. If only he could just track that phone—
But he doesn’t need to track the phone.
He remembers the saga four months ago, where you’d let your phone die out at a bar, lost it, and had to buy a new one. How Bucky had bought you that tracking card, slipping it into the glittery case behind your phone, ‘just in case.’ How it had come in handy when you did the same exact thing not a month later.
He hurriedly pulls out his phone, booting up FindMy, tapping the device labeled Princess.
The location pings out in the Pine Barrens. His focus sharpens to a dagger’s edge.
Bucky springs up out of his seat and towards the door, already reaching for his keys. “I got it. I got a location, a lead,” he barks.
Steve jobs after him, grabbing his elbow and pulling him to a stop. “Buck, just wait three seconds and talk to us before you go chargin’ into the fray.”
“We just said—“
Your father approaches, his expression terrified but, for the first time since he got the call, hopeful. “Text me the location. I'm sending a detail with you.”
He claps a hand on Bucky's shoulder, eyes growing dark. “You have my permission to clean house if you have to, understand? Just bring her home in one piece.”
Bucky nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Go.”
He’s out the door in the very next breath.
Exhaustion doesn’t begin to cover how you feel. These idiots have no idea what they’re doing. Working themselves into a panic over news they don’t elect to share with you, they haul you out of your chair at dusk, talking about safehouses and low-traffic hideouts. You still fight, refusing to make this process easy for them, but your energy wanes each time they wrestle you into the trunk of that car.
Thirty-six hours since you were taken. You’ve barely eaten, slept even less. You're so tired that you fade in and out of consciousness in your chair, never feeling fully rested every time you jolt awake.
The brainless pair of men pace the floor of the new safehouse, the third location you’ve encountered in twenty four hours. They're clearly flailing without the support of their network, and without a full-functioning plan. You strain to overhear their whispers, and that’s when you realize they’re starting to become truly afraid.
Bucky’s got them running scared. Good. They should be scared.
“They got Bobby, they got Vince," the taller man hisses. Frank, you remember. In the two days you’ve had the pleasure of his company, you’ve learned so many helpful names. “They’re comin’ for us, you know that right?”
The brains of the operation, Chris, barks angrily, “Shut up.” He takes a deep breath to calm himself. “I have a plan. Nothin’s been done that can’t be undone. All we gotta do is use the resources we have.”
Two pairs of eyes slide to you, and you shift uncomfortably in your chair.
“Her?” Frank asks, evidently not following Chris's line of thinking.
Chris slinks to your chair and reaches behind him, to the handgun you’ve glimpsed a few times in passing that he keeps tucked into his waistband. He doesn’t point it directly at you. Instead, he crouches down to eye level with you, letting the weapon rest on his thigh. Even so, the threat is implicit.
You’re pretty sure he won’t shoot you. Pretty sure. If he really wanted you dead, he would have done it already, instead of dragging you through this drawn-out charade. And you know that he knows the outcome would be disastrous if he did.
Still, your heartbeat picks up at the sight of it, an instinct that no amount of logic can scrub out.
“Here’s the deal, sweetheart. We’ve had our fun, now I need you to do us a favor.” His other hand reaches into his pocket, pulling out your phone, the case sparkling in the dim light of the room.
“You’re gonna call off your daddy, call off your little boyfriend, tell ‘em you’re safe and that we’ve been treating you real good. And you’re gonna ask for some money. Enough to get us outta town. I'm thinking we start with 50k. Leaves us room to negotiate up the next time we ask.”
He tilts his head like he’s the mastermind villain of a crime novel, looking very pleased with himself for coming up with this plot. The barrel of the gun taps your knee gently, and you flinch just a little.
He grins. “Think you can do that for me?”
You know that the only reason they’re asking you this is that they’re running out of options. That the wolves are closing in. Which means rescue could be coming any time now. But you aren’t sure what happens if you refuse.
So you nod compliantly.
Chris pulls the gag from your mouth, making you cough again, and holds the phone up to your face to unlock it. A few taps later, he presses call on Bucky’s contact, little hearts surrounding the text reading My Man. He puts it on speakerphone. You listen, trembling as it rings once, twice. and then he picks up.
“Hello?” his voice is guarded, unsure of who he’s talking to, whose voice he’s about to hear.
You let out a broken sob of relief at the sound of his voice, the first familiar and comforting thing you’ve encountered since you left that nightclub. “Bucky.”
“Oh, thank god.” his words come out in a rush. “Baby, please tell me you’re okay.”
Your lower lip wobbles, a tear streaks down your face. Chris nudges the barrel of his gun against your knee again, and you stammer, “I–I’m okay.”
“I’m comin’ for you, princess,” Bucky vows with quiet certainty, like a storm about to break. “I’ll be there real soon.”
Chris looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to begin your scripted dialogue. Resentment boils under your skin as you look down at the bruises decorating your legs, as you think of the hell he’s put your family through with this idiotic, ill-conceived scheme.
You raise your chin, finding a steadiness you haven’t felt in two days. “Good. Make ‘em pay, baby.”
Chris's snide expression drops, and he hangs up before tossing the phone across the room, enraged. The back of a hand cracks against your face, and you taste blood at the corner of your mouth.
“Stupid bitch,” he spits.
You compose yourself, toss your hair out of your eyes haughtily and reply, “Hope you didn’t plan on keeping that hand.”
Cold steel presses to your cheek. Chris digs the barrel of the gun into your skin, his face twisted in anger. He's so close you can smell his fetid breath.
“Easy, Chris," Frank says placatingly. “Let's not do anything we can’t take back.”
Pulling from a hidden well of bravery within you, you hiss, “Yeah, Chris. Take it easy.”
Chris jerks away from you, white knuckles wrapped around the handle of the gun as he gestures between you and Frank with it. “Shut her up, for the love of god.”
Frank moves unsteadily towards you and picks the gag up off the floor.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Chris speaks like he’s trying to convince himself more than Frank. “He won’t find us out here. No one knows where we are.”
“Then why do you look so scared?” you ask, your lips curling into a sneer.
“I told you to shut that bitch up!” he shouts to Frank, hurling open the door and stalking outside to get some air.
It doesn't matter that Bucky hasn’t slept in almost two days. It doesn't matter that he’s running on gas station energy drinks and protein bars he didn’t bother to taste as he choked them down. It doesn't matter, because he’s the best weapon this syndicate has. And the men that chose to stand between you and him are about to find out just how good he is.
Three guys abandoned ship on this kidnapping scheme over the course of those thirty-six hours, staying behind to clear up loose ends at abandoned safehouses or trying to make contact with their people in an effort to save their own hides. Useless. He'd gotten the information he needed from them and then disposed of them like the garbage they were. He had been given permission to clean house, and he intends to use it.
He closes in on the latest safehouse less than a half hour after your call disconnects. The detail sent by your father is about five minutes behind, left in the dust when Bucky broke about five different traffic laws once the line went dead.
He sees the first one outside, panicking and scrambling for his piece as Bucky throws the car into park. A crack rings out, and a bullet pings off his passenger side mirror as he jumps out of the car. He ducks quickly behind his car door and lets five more bullets thud into it. The moment that pathetic little revolver clicks empty, Bucky straightens up and takes his aim.
The man crumples to the ground like a cheap shirt.
Bucky quickly cases the front entrance and stalks to the door. If you're not on the other side of it, whoever is will have hell to pay.
He kicks the door open and readies his weapon.
Another crack, then a burn at his right bicep. In an instant, his eyes snap to the source of the shot, and Bucky drops him before he can pull the trigger a second time. A quick glance down reveals that the bullet only grazed, leaving a red dripping stripe across his arm that he barely even feels. His entire focus is funneled to finding you.
He moves through the space with his gun ready in his grip, looking for any other human obstacles that need to be cleared. He turns down a short hallway, checks a few empty rooms, until he finds one that isn’t empty.
You’re sitting tied to a chair in the middle of the room, mouth stuffed with a cloth, your eyes wide and disbelieving. Shaking, pale, and bruised – but alive and in one piece.
Bucky nearly collapses with relief, but by some miracle his legs keep him upright, moving him towards you. His hands didn’t shake once when he cut down the men in his path, but it trembles when he cups your jaw and gently removes the gag.
“Hey. Hey, princess. I got you.”
“Bucky,” you whimper, your voice hoarse and breaking.
The ropes binding you are the last thing preventing him from taking you into his arms, so he takes his knife out of his sock and gets to work as quickly as he can.
“You’re bleeding,” you mumble, brows furrowed in concern.
“Just a scratch,” he assures you, the restraints at your ankles falling away. “Anybody else here?”
You shake your head. “No. Just them.”
When he manages to free your hands, you launch yourself into his arms, clearly weak but holding onto him with a desperate grip. “You’re really here,” you whisper.
Bucky wraps his arms around you, cradles your head, and it’s like the world rights itself. “I told you I was comin’ for you.”
You sniffle, burying your face in his neck. “I knew you would.”
“You did good. You were so brave, baby, I'm so proud of you.” He pulls you back a little to look you over, frowning at a bruise that is just starting to darken by your mouth. The moment his eyes land on it, he’s glad he decided not to show any mercy.
“They hurt you?” he asks, muscles in his jaw ticking.
“Not bad.” You sniffle again, wiping your eyes. “But they tossed my Birkin off the GWB.”
Bucky laughs in surprise, pressing his lips to your forehead. You must be all right if you’re thinking about your purse at a time like this.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he promises, slipping an arm around your waist. “C’mon, let’s get you outta here.”
—————————
Your father’s detail handles cleanup, and you’re grateful for that. All you have to worry about is washing your face, brushing the tangles out of your hair, and settling into the passenger seat for a couple of hours on the car ride home.
Now that the worst of it is behind you, and you’re safe in the familiar comfort of Bucky's car, you start to lose the fight against exhaustion. Your hand stays wrapped up in his while he drives, but your eyes droop, your head lolling against the headrest.
“I saw the footage from outside the club.” He squeezes your hand. “You put up a good fight.”
In spite of your fatigue, you smirk. “‘Course I did.“
“That’s my girl.” His eyes stay firmly on the road, focus sharp even as his voice softens. “But you’ll never have to do that again. They know better now than to mess with the girl I love.”
You turn your head in surprise.
Bucky is a man of actions, of deeds, not words. You've never once doubted his devotion to you, but this is the first time he’s ever spoken it aloud. Warmth blooms through your chest, slow and unstoppable.
“You love me?” you ask quietly, unable to help the smile that infects your face, temporarily banishing your fatigue.
He glances towards you, brows knitted together. “What are you talkin’ about? ‘Course I do.”
Immensely pleased, you turn your attention out the window, because looking at him right now makes your heart do ridiculous things. “I knew it,” you reply teasingly. “You’re goin’ soft.”
You can practically sense the rolling of his eyes as he lets go of your hand to squeeze your thigh. He huffs a quiet laugh, muttering, “You are such a fuckin’ brat.”
Unable to resist, you look back at him, surrendering to the warmth. “I love you.”
Bucky glances back at you again, something vulnerable and grateful in his expression.
“Thank you for the rescue,” you add, letting your eyes flutter closed.
“I’ll always keep you safe, princess.”
As the car rumbles along the highway, you feel the truth of his promise down to your marrow. Your knight in shining leather armor.
For a moment, your mind drifts to what happens next. The first point of order will be debriefing your father, followed by a hot meal and a long, hotter shower — ideally enjoyed alongside your man. And then blissful, uninterrupted sleep, wrapped up in his arms. You can think of nothing you’d like more at the moment.
Without opening your eyes, you wonder aloud, “Think my dad will promote you now?”
“He better,” Bucky scoffs. “And you are never going to the club without a security detail again.”
“You’re my security detail,” you mumble sleepily, smiling at the way his hand tightens protectively against your thigh.
Summary: After hiding your pregnancy from your husband for a while, Bucky, fiercely territorial and quietly devoted, turns every moment into proof that you and the baby are his entire world. (Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)
Word Count: 2.4k+
A/N & Disclaimer: This is a special addition to this series due to my 1k followers event based off the Character Questionnaire game from this ask! It has a significant time skip and is not part of the main chapters (at least not for a longggg time). The next update to this AU will go back to when they are not married, not expecting babies, etc.
Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist
You didn’t mean to keep it from him.
You chalked the fatigue up to stress. The soreness? A bad night’s sleep. The way your stomach flipped at the smell of coffee one morning and you nearly cried because of a stupid dog commercial? Well… okay, that was harder to explain.
But still, you told yourself it was a fluke. A weird week. Hormones, maybe. You didn’t want to worry Bucky. Not when things had been so peaceful lately with quiet mornings curled together in bed, more meals together, and late-night walks with his hand brushing yours. You didn’t want to ruin it with paranoia.
Still, Bucky noticed. Of course he did.
You’d catch him watching you, brow furrowed slightly like he was running numbers in his head. When you started getting lightheaded every time you stood up too fast, he stopped letting you carry anything heavier than a throw pillow. You tried to wave him off, but he didn’t say much, just kept that steady gaze on you like he was trying to crack a code you hadn’t realized you were writing.
You weren’t hiding what was going on for some grand plan or secret rebellion. It was fear. And maybe… maybe a little bit of disbelief. If you didn’t say it out loud, if you didn’t name it, then maybe you could keep everything as it was. Simple, safe, and normal.
So you smiled through the nausea, blamed the headaches on allergies, and quietly swapped your morning coffee for tea when Bucky wasn’t looking. You were careful. You hid your vitamins behind the cereal boxes and kept the pregnancy test buried under old wash clothes and unused toiletries in the very back of the bathroom drawer.
You were good at pretending, but Bucky was better at watching.
He saw the way you flinched from certain smells, the way your body gravitated toward the couch faster than usual after a long day, or the way your hand went protectively to your stomach whenever you thought no one was looking.
And then came the mood swings.
You were usually patient, especially with him, but one night you snapped at Bucky for leaving a dish in the sink. He didn’t even argue, just tilted his head, studying you quietly as you stormed out of the room like your heart was on fire.
He found you in the bedroom twenty minutes later curled into a ball, blanket pulled over your face like you could hide from the world.
“Wanna talk?” He asked, voice soft.
You didn’t answer, just shook your head.
He didn’t press. He just sat beside the bed quietly until you fell asleep.
And still… you didn’t tell him.
You wanted to be sure. You wanted time to think. You wanted to hold onto the tiny, flickering hope for just a little longer, uninterrupted.
So you waited and you planned.
One quiet morning, when Bucky left early for a training session, you slipped into the bathroom with shaking hands and another test clenched tight in your fist. The mirror showed a pale version of yourself, someone who was nervous, uncertain, and blinking too fast.
You followed the instructions with breathless precision and set the test on the counter like it might explode.
Then you waited. Two minutes. You could survive two minutes.
Except you didn’t feel like you were surviving. You felt like you were floating and sinking all at once, like the air had turned to static and your bones were filled with buzzing dread. Your gaze shifted to the drawer where the old tests were.
Maybe they were faulty or glitched, maybe even expired. Maybe this was just stress, or a weird shift in your cycle. Maybe your body was playing tricks.
You hoped so.
Because your hands were shaking, your mouth was dry, and your head kept looping the same thought like it was stuck on a scratched record:
You still haven’t told Bucky.
The subject of kids had never come up, not seriously. There were no “what-ifs,” no late-night talks about futures with cribs or lullabies. You didn’t know if he even wanted them. What if he didn’t? What if the idea of a baby scared him and pushed him back into memories too dark to name?
Your stomach twisted. Not from nausea, though that hadn’t exactly eased, but from the gut-deep fear that this one thing, this one tiny life-altering truth might shift everything between you. Bucky loved you. That wasn’t in question. He told you in every touch, every breath, and every stupid middle-of-the-night trip for snacks you hadn’t even realized you were craving.
But love didn’t always mean ready.
And the last thing you wanted was to see anger on his face. Or worse, disappointment. Cold, quiet regret. A sharp flinch that said I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t want this. A withdrawal.
And when the lines appeared clear, certain, and real, your stomach dropped. You slid down onto the cool tile floor and stared because it was happening. You were pregnant, no doubts about it. And Bucky didn’t know.
You stayed in the bathroom longer than you meant to. Long enough that, when the front door creaked open, you jumped, heart lodging in your throat. Bucky’s voice echoed softly down the hall.
“Sweetheart? I forgot my gloves–”
Panic surged through you. You shoved the test back in its box and crammed it under the sink, slamming the cabinet door closed, standing back up just as Bucky rounded the corner into the hallway.
He paused when he saw you, your wet eyes, tense shoulders, and breath caught halfway to a sob.
You really weren’t as convincing as you thought.
“…You okay?” He asked gently, blue eyes narrowing with something deeper than concern. “You look… pale.”
You forced a smile that hurt. “Just tired.”
He studied you like he didn’t quite believe you, then stepped forward and raised a hand to your forehead. His touch was careful, the brush of his fingers cool against your skin.
“No fever,” He murmured. “But your heart’s racing.”
“I said I’m fine,” You said a little too fast.
That look came over him again. The one that meant he was filing something away, mentally circling something he couldn’t yet name.
“…Alright,” He sighed softly. “I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t go fainting on me.”
You nodded, lips pressed tight.
He kissed the top of your head before heading back out the door, but you could feel the weight of his concern even after it shut behind him.
He knew something was going on. He just didn’t know what. Not yet.
At least, that’s what you thought.
Bucky didn’t ask what was wrong, but he made it impossible for you not to notice that he knew.
It was in the subtle things. You reached for the car keys one morning and found one of his men already standing by the door, your coat in hand, saying, “Mr. Barnes has requested I drive you.”
When you went to brew coffee, there was suddenly a mug of herbal tea beside your usual spot, caffeine-free, floral, and warm.
“I just thought you might want something gentler,” He said with a shrug, eyes fixed on the kettle like he hadn’t spent ten minutes researching safe teas and had them delivered the day of.
You told yourself it was coincidence, that you weren’t being obvious, that he couldn’t possibly know.
But then you caught him watching you when you sat on the couch and curled your arms around your stomach, something you did more and more without thinking. He didn’t comment, just gave you that look. That look.
Gentle. Patient. Heartbreaking.
And you knew. He was waiting. He’d already figured it out.
You came home one evening quite late, exhausted and foggy with emotion. Bucky had left a blanket folded over the back of the couch, soft and warm. The fireplace was already lit. There was soup in the kitchen made by Nico. Something mild, simple, and exactly what your stomach could handle lately. He didn’t greet you at the door, didn’t hover. Just let you ease into the silence of the house as he was sat on the couch with a discarded book, staring patiently.
He was giving you a choice.
“Thought you were busy, didn’t think you’d be down here,” You murmured.
“Didn’t think you’d be home so late,” He answered, and you caught the quiet worry behind the words.
You sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, neither of you saying anything for a long time. The crackling of the fire filling the space.
Then he asked, so quietly it nearly broke you, “You gonna tell me?”
Your breath caught.
“I mean… when you’re ready,” He added quickly. “I’m not going to force it out of you. I just…”
He paused, looking down at his hands, then up at you again.
“I just want you to know I already got you. No matter what it is.”
Your eyes stung. You didn’t say it yet. Not out loud.
But your hand found his, fingers weaving slow and certain. Holding on.
And Bucky didn’t push. He just laced your fingers together and waited with you.
The fateful day happened on a Tuesday.
Not a dramatic day. Not a falling-apart kind of day. Just… a Tuesday. The kind where your lunch didn’t settle right and everything felt a little too loud.
Bucky had been trailing the edges of your space again. Not smothering, just there. Like gravity that’s always near, always steady.
He hadn’t asked again, but he left things: crackers in your bag, your favorite fuzzy socks on the bed, or a bottle of ginger ale already opened with the fizz just right. You didn’t have to tell him. Somehow, Bucky knew the shape of your day before you could say it.
And maybe that’s what broke you.
Because when he found you that evening, curled in on yourself on the edge of the bed, blanket half-dragged over your lap and your hands clutched tight in your sleeves; you looked up, met his worried blue eyes, and said it.
“James,” You whispered, voice wrecked and tired.
His whole body went still, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “Yeah?”
“I’m pregnant.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Bucky exhaled, slow and trembling, like you’d cracked something open in his chest.
“I know,” He said gently, stepping forward and kneeling in front of you. “I figured.”
Tears burned behind your eyes. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”
His hands came up to rest on your knees, tentative and warm. “Because I didn’t want to take it from you.”
You blinked. “Take what?”
“The chance to say ii, to let it be yours first.” His voice cracked, quiet and tender. “You needed to hold it for a while before sharing it. I get that.”
You stared at him, lip trembling. “Aren’t you mad I didn’t tell you sooner?”
“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear, “I was never gonna be mad.”
You broke then as your sobs spilled out and your hands trembled. Bucky gathered you close without a second thought. He rocked you gently, murmuring things you didn’t catch.
When your tears slowed, and your breathing steadied, he kissed the side of your head and said quietly, “We’re gonna be okay. All three of us.”
You nodded into his shoulder, still shaking. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” He whispered, pulling the blanket around both of you. “But I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in weeks, the fear didn’t feel so overwhelming.
But then it started the day after you told him.
At first, it was subtle. Bucky adjusted your car seat a little further back and mumbled something about “spinal alignment.” Then he replaced your shampoo with one that had “better prenatal safety ratings,” and you realized it was happening.
By the end of the week, your world had shifted.
You tried to carry a grocery bag inside one afternoon and he blinked like you’d committed a war crime.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Helping?”
“Not anymore, you’re not.”
From that moment on, you were banned. From lifting, from bending, from anything Bucky Barnes decided was “unnecessary effort” for a person growing a child.
You rolled your eyes. “I’m pregnant, not fragile.”
He didn’t argue. He just took the bag from your hands, scooped you up bridal-style, and carried you inside like you weighed less than a breath, ordering his staff to handle the rest of the groceries.
From then on, it only got more apparent how determined he was to provide nothing but the best for you.
If you so much as shifted in bed at 3 a.m., he was up. Padding to the kitchen in his sweats, eyes still half-shut, and grabbing pickle chips, orange slices, or whatever weird craving your body decided it had to have. You once whispered “s’mores” at 2:47 a.m. and woke up to him standing over you with a plate of them.
You weren’t allowed to open doors. You weren’t allowed to walk into any building first; he always went in first, eyes scanning, and body subtly angled in front of yours like a living shield.
You tried to argue once. “James, you can’t possibly keep doing this every single time we go somewhere–”
“I can and I will,” He said simply, “I know what this world’s like. I’ve seen too much. No one gets near you unless I say so.”
He meant it. No one raised their voice around you. No one touched you. People who even looked at you wrong got a tight-lipped stare that made them suddenly remember an urgent reason to be elsewhere.
Sam called him “feral.” Nat called him “a full-time bodyguard with a nesting complex.” You just called him yours.
And under all the sharp edges was softness.
Warm hands rubbing your lower back when it ached, whispered promises to your child, and bought an overly-excessive amount of books about parenting, swaddling, and sleep schedules. He helped you build baby furniture in the middle of the night when insomnia hit you and even hand-painted the tiny mural on the nursery wall, stars and constellations, soft and glowing.
He looked at you nowadays like he couldn’t believe he got this lucky. Like it terrified him, grounded him, and gave him purpose all at once.
And when he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and then lower to the swell of your stomach, you knew what he meant without words.
You and the baby were his everything now and he’d do anything to protect you both.
