Wedded Bliss

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/53136859.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel Movies),
Captain America (Movies)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader
Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Reader, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson (Marvel)
Additional Tags: Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Oral Fixation, Vaginal Fingering, Arranged
Marriage, Mob Boss Bucky Barnes, Dubious Consent, Protective Bucky
Barnes, Enemies to Lovers, Breeding, Loss of Virginity, Virginity,
Corruption, Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Blood
and Injury, Possessive Bucky Barnes, Smut, Daddy Kink,
Overstimulation, Dirty Talking Bucky Barnes, Mob AU, Mafia AU,
Creampie, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2024-01-18 Words: 9,918 Chapters: 1/1
 Wedded Bliss
by gutsby

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.
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 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 half 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 was 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 in 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 and 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 by now—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 going well so far, Mrs. Barnes?”
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