‘i’m a brooklyn baby’

“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 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.

And it was only by pure desperation did you seek out your real parents, you thought you hit the jackpot when you matched your DNA with a billionaire.

Fast forward a few years and you had well and truly established yourself in this life of the fast living.

You had attended parties on top of parties.

Rubbed shoulders with real life superhero’s, one’s from even out of this world.

You also had a fair few arguments with actual government personnel and once was escorted out of the White House.

Still, the massive falling out you had with your Dad that particular day would be nothing compared to this one you were about to have as just…13 minutes ago, you had been told you will be given a personal bodyguard.

Yes, your Dad may have said body guard but you translated it to ‘babysitter’.

And at 20 years of age, who would possibly want a babysitter?!

Morgan doesn’t even have one for gods sake!

“She’ll calm down soon” Tony sighs out loud.

Pepper smiles weakly as she strokes Morgan’s hair.

“Do you think it will be any easier when this little one is her age?” She asks him but doesn’t really want an answer.

She knows deep down Tony feels guilty about missing out the fact he had another Daughter out there somewhere.

***

“Rise and shine starlight…” Your Dad raps on your bedroom door the next morning, or more like afternoon.

“I know you’re mad at me but you can’t be so mad you’ll miss out on brownie-pancakes!” 

“Ergh!” You throw the pillow you were laid on over your head.

“I’m not a child!!” You shout out into the soft  fabric.

“I know” your Dad feels the guilt pang at him again as he remembers that he never saw you as a child.

“But who can refuse brownie-pancakes??…” 

“…I’ll be down in 5” you roll your eyes like he can hear them!

You thought about getting showered and dressed before going downstairs (it was gone noon after all) but the promise of sweet treats for breakfast were too good to miss out on.

Throwing some slacks and a hoodie on, you make your way down stairs, hugging Morgan hello as you walk past her in the middle room.

“I didn’t make them myself so they’re good!” Your Dad says as you take a place at the breakfast bar.

There was quite a spread as you gathered a few brownie-pancakes on a plate, topped them with the whipped cream and strawberries your dad had put out whilst also pinching a few chocolate shavings for the top.

He just smiles at you as you get started on the pile of food, enjoying the silence for once.

It’s short lived though, as you hear the clicking of Pepper’s heels along the corridor over the sound of her speaking quietly, is she on the phone? 

“Ah, glad you could make it Cap” Your dad looks up, past you sitting at the breakfast bar and towards the 2 men now entering the kitchen.

You freeze on the spot.

You weren’t expecting guests, hence the choice of relaxed attire you had on so are hugely embarrassed anyways but the fact that it was THE Captain America was 10 times worse!

You’ve met him a few times at parties, but that’s when you were done up to the 9’s. 

You’d never come close to being with him of course but that never stopped you flirting outrageously with him at every chance.

One, he was ridiculously handsome and two, you knew it would piss your Dad off to no end to see you giggling and grabbing the arm of his Avenger team mate.

He definitely didn’t have anything to worry about now though as you’re sure when Steve sees you dressed the way you are with no make up on, he’ll never look at you twice again!

“Morning girls” the heavenly voice of his rings around the room as Morgan squeals whilst saying her hello back.

You haven’t turned around yet.

Hopefully your Dad and Cap and whoever else it is will go off to the offices for the business it was that had him here.

“Good morning Y/N?” Steve says to you as you pop your hoodie on over your head, at least trying to hide your look of homelessness. 

“Mmm, Morning” you quickly speak up, still not facing him in the doorway.

Your Dad laughs.

He knows exactly what you’re thinking and he’s loving every minute of it.

Maybe now you’ll leave his team mate alone at parties?

“Y/N?” He sounds so innocent as you glare back at him from underneath your hood.

“This is the bodyguard I was telling you about…” he smirks at you again.

You are fuming.

Not only did you point blank refuse his idea of having a personal bodyguard but not even 24 hours later, he’s brought someone in for you to meet whilst you’re looking like a hobo!!

“I don’t need a baby sitter” you say to him through gritted teeth but it soon disappears as you hear Steve’s laughter from behind.

“He’s not a babysitter y/n” he says walking over to you, (oh no!) 

“Your Dad’s right, you need protection,  24/7 protection and when we’re not around, then…”he’s in front of you now as you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

Smiling as you turning pink he carries on “…then Bucky will be there for you if and when you need it” 

Your heart sinks at his words.

Did you even hear him right.

Bucky will be here?

Bucky Barnes?!

You turn your head towards the doorway, forgetting about the state of your face, needing your eyes to confirm for your ears.

And sure enough, there he is, taking up the whole frame of the doorway pretty much, it’s the winter soldier.

***

You had met Steve’s old war pal a handful of times before today.

He didn’t really like the whole ‘Stark Party’ vibes you had most weekends and he rarely hung with the others around the compound much.

He would sometimes acknowledge you when Steve would say hi or bye but that’s about as far as interactions have been between you both. 

So you have no idea why your Dad thought the ex Hydra assassin would be the best pick of the bunch to be your bodyguard.

You had yet another argument with him about it, this time with Cap and Bucky stood there in the kitchen to witness it.

You were being a massive brat but you didn’t care.

You had to get your point across but it, once again, fell on deaf ears as just 3 days later you were left alone in the compound with your new security.

It had been exactly 4 hours and 37 minutes since you watched the Quinjet pull out of the landing bay with the Avengers on board.

Off out on some pissy little mission in the Middle East somewhere, you kept your best pouting face on the whole time your Dad explained himself to you.

Turning to Bucky stood just behind you, you could have sworn he sighed out loud as he turned and walked back inside.

Perhaps he wasn’t happy with this arrangement either?

Not that you could ask him.

He stayed in the kitchen whilst you were laying on the sofa, scrolling aimlessly on your phone.

A light rumble from your stomach reminded you that you had skipped breakfast this morning, too annoyed to eat! 

You practically dragged yourself up from the comfort of the lounge area, wrapping the blanket you had around your shoulders like some sort of cape.

Bucky flickered his gaze up to look at you as you walked over to the fridge.

You tried not to look his way as he was leant over the breakfast bar, his dark blue shirt showing off his vibranium arm.

The silence in the room got louder as you finished making your lunch, deciding to sit at the opposite end of the bar.

Bucky sighed, making that same exasperated sound he had done previously on the balcony today.

The noise made you look up towards him, your eyes found his staring straight at you.

Your cheeks heated slightly as you he kept his eyes on you.

“You er…” you cleared your throat “hungry?” 

You ask the Super Soldier, why was he staring at you like this??

But he doesn’t answer, instead he stands from the breakfast bar, the sound of the stool legs scrapping on the floor caused you to jump a little.

He maintains your awkward eye contact with him as walks out the kitchen, away from you.

“Ooook…” you say to yourself.

***

The next couple of days were pretty much the same, you knew the super soldier was in the compound with you whilst your Dad and the others were still out on the mission but you never found yourself in the same room as him, ever.

If you were in the kitchen, he’d wait in the lounge.

If you were in the lounge, he’d be upstairs in his room.

If you were in your room, he’d be down in the gym.

He always made sure he’d leave which ever room it was, just as you were coming in.

It was weird as hell.

You tried to smile at him as you crossed paths in the hallway or stairs but he never gave you anything back.

You started to get annoyed with him.

You weren’t happy with this arrangement, that was obvious, but why did he agree to it if he’s not even going to nod a good morning greeting once in a while.

On day 4 of no Dad or Avenger’s here, you finally snapped.

You had wanted to go and meet your bestie in town but Bucky said no.

You didn’t even ask him if you could, so you wasn’t prepared in the slightest to hear his very firm ‘no!’

“I’m sorry…did you just tell me no?” You gave Bucky a chance to change his answer, rewrite his little script of this conversation but he wasn’t budging.

“You’re not going” he said to you as he turned to walk away but you step in front of him.

This is the most words he’s ever said to you and yet they aren’t what you want to hear.

“I don’t think you can…” you try to argue your point but he cuts in.

“Your Dad said I’m in charge whilst he’s gone” Bucky snaps at you.

“But, I…” the way he’s glaring down at you makes you stutter, what is his problem??

“But nothing” he simply states, walking around where you had been standing he goes back into the lounge. 

You stand there for a few more seconds.

Trying to take in what had just happened.

Did the winter soldier just ground you??

***

You were fuming.

You thought about stomping after Bucky, tell him what’s for and that he can’t speak to you like that but you were still pretty intimidated by him.

He was a trained assassin once upon a time.

So, you opted for the plan which you did best, you’d sneak out instead.

Of course you haven’t had to do this for a long time but you didn’t realise it would have to come to this.

You stayed in your bedroom until you knew Bucky had gone down to the gym, like he always did when you were up here.

You peeked out the crack of your door, just about catching the screen above the elevator as it dinged to say it was at the ground floor.

Perfect.

You eased out of your bedroom, closing the door ever so quietly.

I mean, he was a super soldier after all, who knew if he had super senses??

You tiptoed to the stairs, one last look to make sure the elevator was still displaying the ‘G’ for ground floor, you bolted down them, maintaining those light foot steps each time.

You stepped off the last one and into the reception area, your feet squealed from the rubber on the bottom of your trainers as they hit the shiny surface of the floor.

The noise startled you but you carried on running, you cleared the distance to the front entrance doors in no time, you could feel your hand starting to sweat as you reached out to grab the handle.

Twisting it frantically, it took a little longer than it should have to realise the top was bolted across.

Something you’ve hardly ever seen on this door as it’s never needed to be locked so tightly.

“Eurgh!!” You can’t keep your frustration inside as you desperately try to jump and reach the lock. 

One, two, three times it took you to outstretch your arm long enough to be able to slide the metal across but you did it.

A loud sigh escaping from your mouth as you finally go to swing the door open, almost tasting freedom, but the sound of someone clearing their throat comes from behind you.

Dread fills your body.

You know damn well whose mouth that left from.

Closing your eyes in defeat at getting caught, you drop your head down to the floor also.

“I thought I told you no” Bucky’s voice almost echoed as you both now stood in the reception area.

You could feel your body start to pump adrenaline as his words hit a nerve with you.

“You can’t tell me no” you bite back.

Staying where you are, facing the, now unlocked, door.

You put your hand back onto the handle, you got this far you might as well carry on.

What could he possibly do to stop you from leaving?

“Take your hand off that handle Doll” Bucky threatened you, you almost got annoyed all over again at the tone he had used.

Like telling a child off but the name he added at the end of his sentence took you by surprise.

“Doll?” Your inside thoughts decide to break free as you question if he meant to say that to you.

“Let go of the door” Bucky repeats himself, leaving out the pet name he previously had said.

“Or??” You pushed it a little further with him. 

Maybe because you still had your back to him, so you couldn’t see just how scary he probably looked right now. 

You gripped a little tighter on the door handle too.

You hardly heard his footsteps yet he closed the distance between you both in mere seconds. 

His breathing was suddenly very close to your neck as he stood almost flush behind you.

He reached up, leaning over you slightly as he slid the bolt back across the top of the door with ease.  

You still had hold of the handle, even though the top bolt made your action redundant, you felt like it was your only way to help prove your point.

You didn’t expect him to wrap his hand around yours that was still clutching onto the metal to pull it away.

“Just do…” the sound of him talking so close to your ear almost sent a shiver down your spine.

Why was he so scary?

“…what you’re told. For once” 

He added on that last bit through gritted teeth it sounded like.

With his hand still entwined with yours, he uses this contact to pull you round, so you were now facing him.

Your back hit the wooden paned door as you glance upwards to his face.

His eyes pierced into yours, almost trying to read what was going on behind them.

But you had nothing.

The basement of murder house was quiet, but that's why Tate liked it. It was his place where he had full control of the house. No one bothered him.

"Tate? Are you down here?" Your footprints were soft down the steps, your voice a hushed shout. Beyond angry, but of course, you didn't want the blonde ghost to know that factor just quite yet.

"Yes?" turning around to meet him, his eyebrows knitted together in worry. You examined him for a moment, looking at his tousled blonde hair, his eyes looking way darker than usual in the lighting. He was wearing a black sweater with ripped jeans and a part of red converse. The laces of course, dirty as well as the shoes.

"Let me look at you." You whispered, drawing your hands toward the dead boys cheeks. Cupping them in your hands they felt cold, but trailing them down to his chest, he felt even colder. Not one pitter of a heart beat.

"I missed you mama.." He said, a smile on his face before he leaned in to stitch his lips with yours. Though you were angry, you kissed him back. Ice cold hands holding your waist firmly.

"I wish I could say the same baby." Tate's smile faded, as his eyes locked with yours in confusion. "W-what?" You pulled away from him, his hands reaching out for you not to leave his touch. You paced infront of him, running your fingertips over the dusty cabinets that were next to you. "I think you've been a bad boy Tate.." your tone was as soft as you could make it. But Tate swore he didn't know what you were talking about.. but then he remembered the conversation he had with Constance..

"W-what do you mean? Mommy..I haven't done anything.." letting a chuckle leave your mouth at the boys stupid response. In desperate urge to make himself innocent. Taking a breath, you walked back over to your lover. Once again cupping his face in your hands.

"You haven't done anything wrong?"

"N-no mommy.." He stammered. His voice was small. That's how you knew he was lying. "Then whose the father of that child?" The blonde gulped loudly. His saliva becoming extremely hard to swallow becuase of the pure fear of you finding out.

"W-what child?" He lied, his metal ring catching on the fabric of your dress. "Don't play dumb with me Tate...I find it very hard to believe you don't know every single thing that has been happening with the Harmon's." You were right..Tate was usually the first to know about everything, even when he was alive too. He always had the knack and special talent for spying and reeking havoc.

"Ben." He gasped out. Trying to seem as normal as he could.

"Oh honey..didn't you hear?" Brown eyes widened, looking at you like a deer in headlights. He awaited your next response. "Vivian is having twins, but one of them isn't Ben's." You let your hands fall to his shoulders, fanning over his pecs and fondling his nipples briefly through his shirt making him whine alittle.

"Tate?" You questioned. His eyes met yours as his mouth fell open to moan. "Y-yes mommy?" If you weren't so angry, that tone of voice would've been the death of you.

"Tell me you didn't crawl on top of that women..TELL me you didn't  put your dick in another women and IMPREGNATE HER." Tate begun to cry.

"P-plea-ase...y-you c-can't tell a-anyone.." He sniffed. You lost it, bringing your hand to push him against the wall. He let out a loud hiss at his back hitting the bricks roughly. You slapped Tate across the cheek, gripping his hair in a harsh manner, to slam his face into the wall.

By now he was bleeding and sobbing for you to stop. But you didn't, you were to angry to consider his feelings. Not only had he raped another women. He had cheated on you, and dared to lie to you about it.

He cried when you started to hit him again. Your eyes wide with rage. "M-MAMAAA.." He wailed. Sinking down on the floor holding his hands to his face to guard the pain. "Little fucker." You gritted, grabbing his bangs, using them to bring him back up to your height.

"M-mom-UHHA-" Tate fell to the cement floor, scrapping his palms as you kicked him. Everytime he tried to crawl away, pressing your foot into his ass, so he would tumble down again.

"YOU FUCKING CHEATER." You spat, you as well starting to ball your eyes out. He whimpered, trying to stand up. Reaching after him, you grabbed his shirt. Swinging him into one of the brick posts, making Tate fully smack his face into it.

He let out a groan as he fell to the floor. His face batterd and bloody, still crying for you to help him.

"I-im -c-crazy..i-i need y-yoUAHH-" blood splattered from his mouth as you kicked his stomach. Not wanting to hear a single excuse from him. Giving him one last kick to the face, you got off. Starting to throw books and knock shit over, displaying your point of how fed up and angry you were with him.

"I..I DID EVERYTHING FOR YOU." You cried. Tate himself sobbing, his tears mixing with the blood pouring from his mouth and face. His crys loud, like a obnoxious child. And that's how you saw him, a neglected baby, who's mommy was too hard on him. So he came to you. Tate fell in love with you, but that branched into you becoming his new mommy, a sexual fantasy he always had.

"I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING YOU WANTED! YOU SPOILED PEICE OF SHIT.." You stomped back over to the ghost, kneeling down to his crooked form spasming on the floor. Pointing your finger in his face.

"I CRIED FOR HOURS..WHEN YOU TOLD ME YOU LOVED VIOLET..HOURS TATE! But you told me sweet nothings..and I forgave you." All the pent up rage from your toxic relationship finally coming to light. Tate loved you..that part was true..but you had forgave him for practically everything he had done wrong.

"First time..I forgave you..do you remember what you said?" Tate didn't dare to respond, knowing he would get another hit to the face if he did. "You said, 'I'm sorry mommy, I'll never do it again.' And the second..and the third..even the fifteenth time..I've forgave you..but this time..you've gone too far...this time, you need to be punished."  your voice broke, tears seemed to immediately go away. Every inch of hope that Tate had in his system left his body, that look on your face was something he had never seen before. It wasn't anger, nor sadness, it was cold. Tate looked at you for one of the many times during your conversation, your chest heaved up and down, your beautiful porcelain skin stained in blood splatter.

"Mama..p-please..." your baby flinched as you walked torward him, moving to quickly unbuckle his pants and pull them down his legs. To your utter shock, Tate was hard. And not just hard, but fully erect and leaking precum, meaning he had been close to his orgasm when you were beating the shit out of him. It made you laugh at his pathetic behavior. Pulling down his boxers, he brought his hand up to his mouth. Rubbing his knuckles over his lips, getting them covered in blood.

"Really? Practically creaming your pants at getting beat up? Are you fucking serious Tate?" Poor thing started to cry again,  pure embarrassment from the fact that he wanted you to hit him again.

"I-im i-im so-sorry.." He hiccuped, rubbing his dry eyes, alittle bit of blood gathering on the brige of his nose. You once again took his face in your hands and wiped away some blood with your hands, giving him a sweet smile to make sure he was caught off guard when you kneed him in the balls.

"URGHH haa~" He moaned, falling to the floor cupping himself. The tip of his cock spammed, shooting a thick white liquid out onto the floor.

"Did you just-" your foot connected again with his stomach, making him roll over to the other side of his body in a grumble.

"Your fucking PATHETIC." You insulted, watching as he orgasmed again all over the floor. Tate has always been very easy to please in the bedroom. But the fact that he was getting off on being beaten made you feel horrible sadistic things.

"Stand up." Tate groaned, trying to roll over as his ribs hurt. But it seemed as though he was taking too long for you. "GET THE FUCK UP SLUT!" You shouted, positioning your hand in a slapping position. Tate scrambled to his feet shielding his face from you.

"I want to kiss you so bad, ride your stupid cock silly." The blondes dick twitched at your words, wanting it to become a reality so badly. You listened to his voice become a jumbled mess, since he had already came twice, in less than 5 minutes.

Truly disgusting.

"Mama..please..." The choked on his adams apple, trying to push the words out with his tongue. Wich was all in vain for him, you didn't do anything. Only scolded him once more.

"You think I'd touch your stupid ass after what you've done to me?!" Your face got red with rage, knowing how Tate liked when you pulled his hair..you did. Taking two fistfuls of the moppy curls and used them to swing his body to the floor, once again being rough with him. Though this time was different.. you slid your dress up over your thighs as you straddled him, smacking him across the face when he tried to reach up to grope your boobs. "THESE DONT BELONG TO YOU ANYMORE." Tate winced at the statement. You have never said that to him before.

During all the times you punished him, you had never told him he couldn't touch something becuase it weren't his. And it made him cry.

You reached behind you to line his weeping cock up with your entrance. Sliding down on him and not giving him the slightest moment to adjust.

He whined at the overstimulation, crying over and over. Begging you to let him touch you. Cupping your breasts always made him feel safe during sex, and you didn't want that.

"I-I AHH! M-MAM-MA..I-I BE-BEG! P-PLEASE.." crying through another orgasm you brought him too. Tears once again overpowering the blood and making it pour down his face. Messing his blonde hair a iron brown colour.

"I like when you beg." You brought your hand to his throat, squeezing it hard. Cutting off his supply of air.

"Do it again." Tate immediately started chanting pleas and begs over and over again until he was screaming against his fourth orgasm. That's when you got off of him, knocking the breath from his lungs.

"W-wha.." He choked, not able to get out his words anymore. His poor cock throbbed, even though it had been properly milked 4 times.

Tate's vision was blurry, but he would still the the foggy shine of a contraption you held in your hand, and the light numbness of you attaching it to his cock.

Wiping the water from his eyes, he examined what you had done to him. His cock was incased in a silver cage, a metal ring holding his balls tightly, he watched you shakily as you pulled the key out of the lock. Slapping him a few times.

"This darling, is a chastity ring." You proudly showed him the key you held in your hand, him panting and breathing heavily as he tried to focus on what the hell you were saying, about to pass out.

"Since you want to fuck other women, this will be staying on you for a while." Tate couldn't even feel his tears anymore, as he tried to stand, pulling his boxers and pants back on.

Giving him a gentle kiss, you whispered in his ear. "Walk me out."

And that he did, stumbling up the stairs with you to the front door. You swayed your hips back and forth as you walked. Tate of course not being able to follow you outside the gates.

Before getting into your car, you turned to look at him. A small smile on your face. Then he noticed the glint of something in your hand, it shining in the sun. He watched as you threw it behind you, clinking as it hit the rocks on the curb. Not saying one more word before you drove away. Then it hit him.

That was the key to his ring.

And he couldn't step outside the gates to get it...