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tldrthor · 5 days ago

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Not even death (part one) | bucky barnes

// Summary: It's been 70 years of being his widow, and the world had moved on. But she never would. Commiserating on their wedding anniversary, (y/n) Barnes is attacked by an assailant as she visits her husband's grave. There's something just a little too familiar about the whole thing.

// warnings: ws!bucky barnes x avenger!wife!reader, lots of grief, canon-typical violence, angst, f!reader, platonic!steve being a cutie patootie

// word count: 4.5k

enjoyed? please like/reblog! you can find my masterlist here <3

part two | part three

The third best day of her life was her wedding day.

“Would you switch that off?” She motioned toward the radio in the corner, its incessant drone filling the room. The news blared on—reports of the war, the draft, the daily toll of lives lost. She didn’t need to hear any more. She had already heard it in her head a thousand times, played over and over. Her fiancé was a sergeant, for God’s sake. And she, herself, was getting ready to be shipped off to Europe as a nurse, just another casualty of a war that seemed endless.

Her mother bustled around her, fingers moving with practiced precision as she pinned back her daughter’s hair, spraying the air with the sharp scent of hairspray. She worked on her like a sculptor carving stone, the final touch of a masterpiece. Every movement was deliberate, as if her daughter’s future rested entirely on the perfection of her appearance.

“Sweetheart,” her mother’s voice was soft but laced with concern, “are you sure about this?” The question came between bursts of the toxic spray. “James is a wonderful boy, but this is so rushed. Maybe you should wait until after the war. After everything settles down.”

The girl sitting in front of the mirror understood the hesitation, the fear that gripped her mother’s heart. She saw it in the tightness of her shoulders, in the way her hands shook ever so slightly as she worked. Her mother didn’t understand, couldn’t. How could she? How could anyone? The love she shared with Bucky wasn’t something that could be explained in simple words or the framework of time. It wasn’t about waiting until after the war — it was about the now. It was about carving a life together, even if that life was destined to be brief. It was about this moment. And if the war did its worst, she needed to know the world would remember their love.

“Maybe there won’t be an after,” she whispered, almost to herself, the weight of the words heavier than she intended.

Her mother paused, the hairspray can still in her hand, but didn’t turn to look at her. Instead, she leaned in, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s head, the warmth of the gesture lingering long after she pulled away. She returned to her task, the silence between them thick with unsaid things. Her mother didn’t have to say anything. She knew the question was unanswerable, the truth too raw to put into words.

The memory had been burning its way into her thoughts since the moment she woke up that morning. Over the years, the pain had dulled – god knows it had been long enough. But on days like today it felt like the pain all came flooding back – like she hadn’t moved forward from that day, and all the tragedy that followed, at all. It was her second least favourite day of the year: their wedding anniversary.

“Penny for your thoughts?” A familiar voice interrupted her self-pity from the doorway of her office. He knew what day it was. And she was certain he was here to make sure she wasn’t spiralling into the familiar, unending depths of grief she had been known to inhabit.

She mustered a small smile, relief creeping over her features as he walked in and sat in the chair opposite her. “Just reminiscing.” She typed quickly, finishing the email she absolutely had to send now, before giving her full attention to the Captain.

“Seventy-four years, huh? Hard to believe.” Steve leant back in the chair, his hands clasped neatly over his lap. She could feel him examining her every move, looking for signs of weakness no doubt. He continued; “How’re you holding up?”

She sighed. “I’m doing okay, Steve. Going to visit his grave later… if you want to join?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose–”

She shook her head at him, cutting him off with a gentle firmness. “Nonsense, Stevie. You’re never imposing. We’ll go to the cemetery and then grab some italian from that place in Brooklyn?”

He nodded, his features softening. He knew that her insistence was not her being kind – it was an unspoken way of asking him not to leave her alone. “Italian it is.”

A sharp knock on the door interrupted their moment. The agent standing in the doorway straightened, a look of respect on his face. “Sorry to disturb you, Commander. Fury’s requesting your presence in his office.”

Her gaze flicked up from the papers in front of her, her expression shifting from the kind, friendly one that Steve was used to, to the calm professionalism of the former head of SHIELD and current Commander. “I’ll be right there, Agent. Thank you.”

She stood up from her desk, the movement deliberate, Steve following her lead. “Sorry, Steve. Duty calls.” Her tone softened slightly, but still carried the weight of someone used to giving orders.

“Right you are, Commander.” He smirked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

She rolled her eyes at him but couldn’t suppress a small, fond smile. Her heels clicked down the hall, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet office. Left behind in the silence, Steve reached for the photo frame on her desk, his fingers brushing over the glass as he studied the picture.

Both of his best friends, looking the happiest they’d ever been. Him, too, standing to the right of Bucky. He still considered it one of the greatest honours of his life, to have been Bucky’s best man -- to stand at the altar as his two best friends committing their lives to one another.

Back when each other was all they had. They always had an extra inhaler on hand for him, just in case, and secret codewords for when he wasn’t feeling well, so he didn’t have to explain his chronic health conditions to anyone else. When she wasn’t commander, she was just (y/n), and when she wasn’t visiting Bucky’s grave instead of celebrating an anniversary they should’ve spent old and grey together.

Back when they were just kids, ready to be shipped off to war.

The church was full, but it might as well have been empty. It was just the two of them at that moment. Just Bucky and her, standing at the altar in front of their family and friends, yet none of that mattered. Everything else — the wedding guests, the flowers, the music — faded away, leaving only the man in front of her.

Her hands were trembling, but she didn’t think he noticed. She tried to keep her mind away from the next steps, from the inevitable. They had no idea what would happen when they were shipped off to the other side of the world. Neither of them did. This moment was all they had.

Bucky stood tall in his uniform, as handsome as she remembered from their first meeting, when he had looked at her with those wide brown eyes and a grin that made her stomach flip. His strong hands gripped hers tightly, like he was afraid to let go. His jaw was tight, his shoulders squared — he was trying to hold it together, just like she was.

The minister spoke, but her attention was fixed on him. The slight furrow of his brow, the way his mouth turned down in concentration, the way he steadied his breath before every word. She wanted to reach out, pull him into her arms, and whisper that everything would be fine. But she couldn’t lie to him. She couldn’t promise that.

"Do you, James Buchanan Barnes, take (y/n) to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, in war and in peace, as long as you both shall live?" The minister's voice was deep, but it seemed so far away.

Bucky’s grip tightened on her hand. "I do."

The weight of that simple phrase hung in the air between them, pulling at the corners of her heart. The words were not just an affirmation of love, but a promise — one that would either be honoured in the years to come, or one that would be broken by the unforgiving hands of fate.

The minister turned to her, his eyes kind, yet somber. She swallowed hard, forcing the lump in her throat down as her hands shook. "And do you, (y/n), take James Buchanan Barnes to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, in war and in peace, as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

The minister smiled softly, as though understanding what they were really asking of each other — what they were really saying. This wasn’t just a wedding. It was a promise, forged in the fires of uncertainty, that they would try to carry their love into whatever came next, whether that was days, months, or years.

Bucky squeezed her hands once, then brought them up to his lips, kissing the back of her hand gently. She saw the soft smile on his lips, the one that always made her feel like the luckiest woman in the world. She smiled back, even though the pit in her stomach had only deepened.

"By the power vested in me by the State of New York," the minister continued, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Her heart thudded in her chest as Bucky gently cupped her face in his hands. His eyes searched hers for just a moment, full of a hundred unspoken words. Then, he leaned down, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that tasted like heaven and heartbreak. He kissed her like he was memorising the feel of her, like he wasn’t sure when he’d be able to do it again.

Got held up in a meeting, I’ll meet you at the cemetery? The text blinked on her phone screen. She sighed, slipping her coat on and locking her office door. She hadn’t really wanted to go by herself, but she didn’t mind. She knew he would keep his word.

She stepped into the cool New York air, letting the crisp bite of it settle in her lungs. She could have taken a cab, but today, she decided to walk. The weather, the perfect chill she had once shared with Bucky, should have brought some comfort. They had always loved walking on days like this – finishing with a steaming hot cup of cocoa from Marcels’ street cart. She could almost taste it, even though Marcel and his cart were long gone. Today, it was different. The cold air was suffocating, like a reminder that she would never have that again.

She got there quicker than she intended to, having realised she was marching there. The squeak of the poorly-maintained gate interrupted the eerie silence of the cemetery, even the wind barely stirring the trees. Not even the noise of the traffic dared to encroach on this hallowed ground, as if the outside world was shut out.

Her feet moved on their own, guided by the kind of muscle memory that only comes from years of repetition. She didn’t need to think about where she was going—she had walked these paths so many times, the route was etched into her mind. She had come here hundreds, maybe thousands, of times.

The last slivers of sunlight were fading, casting long, stretching shadows over the gravestones, highlighting the one she was here to see.

Sgt. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes Gave his tomorrow for our today. 1917 - 1945

Looking at the familiar stone, she felt the weight of the world pressing into her shoulders. She didn’t cry here these days – she couldn’t bring the tears to fall. It felt more like her heart was being plunged into an ice bath and held until it screamed for air.

“Hi, handsome.” She smiled, touching the top of the stone, ever so lightly. She had noticed, the past few times she had come, that there was a little dip in the stone where she had touched the stone every time she came to visit for the last seventy years. Another reminder of how long she had been alone.

She remembered him at the altar, standing tall as her father walked her down the aisle. He had been a strapping young man, full of strength and kindness, with an unshakable need to protect those around him. She had adored his Sergeant’s uniform — the way it spoke of everything he had endured, his unwavering dedication, and the spirit that had always driven him. It was that same uniform he wore when he became her husband, in that perfect moment when she thought maybe everything would be okay.

And then, last year, she had seen it again — his uniform — displayed at the Smithsonian exhibition. The sight of it, the memory of him in it, hit her like a punch to the gut. She had barely managed to hold it together long enough to step away, stumbling to the bathroom where she had collapsed in front of the sink, choking back bile.

A sudden shift caught her attention – the crunch of a footstep. There hadn’t been anyone else here. Her instincts kicked in before her mind could process the danger. Her hand dropped to her side where her concealed knife rested, fingers brushing the hilt as she turned on her heel.

A shadow at the edge of the cemetery. The figure stepped into the rapidly dimming light, revealing a man clad in dark tactical gear, his face obscured by a mask and goggles. A glinting silver arm by his side. It wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to visit a graveyard.

For a moment, as they locked eyes, there was nothing but silence. She thought, just for a second, that there was something familiar about him. There was a stiff hesitance in his actions – his face turned briefly from her to the gravestone she was visiting. It wasn’t the right time to think about it, and she wasn’t one to say no to an advantage in a fight.

In one fluid motion, she drew her blade and without missing a beat, she moved. She sprinted towards him, adrenaline surging in her veins, and threw herself in a roll to the side. The assailant’s reaction was immediate – his metal arm shot out to intercept, but she was quicker. She ducked low and spun around, coming up on his left side and launching a series of precise strikes.

Her knife aimed for his throat, but he blocked it effortlessly with his metal arm, the screech of metal against metal echoing in the still air.

The man moved quickly, the metal arm slashing towards her with terrifying speed. She dodged to the side, her own body moving like a blur but narrowly avoiding the strike. She retaliated immediately, aiming a series of rapid strikes at his torso, testing his defences once again.

His reactions were sharp, almost inhumanly so. Faster than anyone she had ever seen. She managed to keep pace with his dizzying movements, moving with the fluidity of someone who had done this dance many times before.

She threw another jab, hitting his side. It did nothing – she hadn’t managed to land an effective attack yet, and she was one of the best in SHIELD at hand-to-hand. There was something not right here, something she was missing…

Taking advantage of her failed hit, his boot connected with her chest, sending her crashing against one of the gravestones. She hit the ground hard, but didn’t stay there – she rolled with the momentum, popping back to her feet smoothly, eyes never leaving her opponent.

He lunged forward, slashing upwards with his knife. She screamed as it made contact with her cheekbone, her hand moving up to cover her new wound and wincing at the claret staining it as she pulled away. She tried to ready herself for his next move, but with the distraction, he was too fast. His strikes were brutal, calculating, each one designed to incapacitate. She was no stranger to close combat but she struggled to match him blow for blow, as the fight dragged on.

She began to feel the weight of her exhaustion. The assailant was relentless, she would give him that. Like a force of nature. She couldn’t help but feel more and more that the odds were stacking against her. As she tired, the attacker only seemed to get quicker and stronger.

With one miscalculation, she found herself pinned to the ground, his boot pressing into her chest, the cold metal of his arm looming over her. She desperately gasped for breath, struggling beneath his weight as she began to feel her ribs crack – the harder she struggled, the tighter his grip seemed to get.

“Get off!” She shouted, desperate to break free. Her words only seemed to fuel his determination. Maybe this is it, she thought. She took a glance at Bucky’s grave – maybe they would finally be together again.

As her struggles became weaker and weaker, a haze reached around the edge of her vision. A red, white and blue blur collided with the attacker’s side, sending him stumbling back off of her chest.

“HEY!” Steve’s voice was like the heralding of an angel. She gasped in a breath of relief as the pressure on her chest finally released.

She scrambled up, her heart still hammering – her chest in immeasurable pain. Steve stood between her and the assailant as she felt like she was hacking up half a lung and at least part of her heart.

“You good?” He called back to her, his eyes unmoving from the man in front of them. The man who previously had been ready to kill her, but now seemed to be showing hesitation once again. She could only cough and splutter in return, but it meant she was breathing at least.

The moment of hesitation passed.

With a growl, the attacker lunged again, attacking Steve with a fury that made her blood run cold. But Steve was ready. He met the assault with precision, using his shield to parry each blow, his movements fluid and practiced.

The attacker didn’t manage to get through Steve’s defences in the way he had hers, no longer able to use physical strength as an advantage. With a sickening crack, Steve’s shield slammed into the side of his head.

It was a move that would’ve knocked an ordinary man out cold, at the very least. But their assailant simply shook his head, as if trying to clear it. His eyes seemed to lock onto her for a brief moment, and then, in the blink of an eye, he darted back, disappearing into the shadows.

Steve and her both froze, staring at the empty space where he had been.

“What the hell was that?” She muttered, trying desperately to catch her breath. Her legs shook from the adrenaline, and Steve finally tore his eyes away to look at his friend.

His jaw tightened as he scanned the area. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen anyone move like that.” He turned to her, “Are you hurt?”

“Cut to the face, at least a couple of broken ribs.” She wheezed. “Who the hell was that, and what did they want from me? Why did he run?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, but it definitely wasn’t a random thug. That was a highly trained killer. And whoever he is or whatever he works for, they clearly want you gone.”

She shook her head. “If they wanted me gone, why wouldn’t they have just positioned a sniper above the cemetery. This felt personal, Steve.”

He grimaced. There was something deeply troubling about the whole affair. Attacking a widow at her husband’s grave, that wasn’t a coincidence, it was a message. Nothing was sacred, and nowhere is safe.

“We need to go.” He put his arms around her, helping her along as she continued to splutter and cough. She threw one last look back at Bucky’s grave, her own blood splashed across it. Something about the imagery made her shudder.

“You’re not going back to your own apartment, (y/n). You can stay with me.” Steve’s voice was firm, with a strong undercurrent of concern – it was clear that he wasn’t asking, just telling. Normally, she would protect, argue that she needed her space. But after the terrifying encounter in the cemetery, the weight of everything – the fight, the fear, the haunting glimpse of the man sent to kill her – maybe it was for the best that she wasn’t alone.

She tilted her head, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m technically your superior, Captain. You can’t give me orders.” The teasing edge was there, but it was tired, the last remnants of her usual strength finally slipping away.

Steve chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. But there was something in his eyes that told her he wasn’t going to let her play that game tonight.

“Unfortunately, Commander,” he replied, his tone playful but insistent. “I promised my best friend I would look after his wife for the rest of my days before he left for Europe. And that trumps any kind of hierarchy said wife finds herself at the top of.”

She smirked, recalling the days before – before everything went wrong, before there was a permanent hole in her life that took the shape of Bucky Barnes. Before the war. Before everything.

Her smile faltered just slightly as she shifted on the couch, wincing from the pain in her chest. Steve was quick to step closer, his hands hovering near her, ready to help.

“You’re sure you don’t need a doctor?” He asked, his voice quieter now, more like the Steve she had once known – concerned and kind, but with an edge of the stoic man who had seen too much and lost too many.

She shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment. “I’ve broken my ribs a thousand times, Stevie. They can’t do anything but pain management.”

There was no bitterness in her voice, just a simple fact. Her body had carried the marks of war for longer than she cared to count – bruises, scars and the slow, agonising wear of decades spent in battle. They say time heals all wounds, but she had enough marks – physical and mental – to prove that wrong.

He sat down beside her, his frown deepening. “What about the cut on your face?” He asked gently, his eyes scanning the healing wound on her cheek. “Looks like it’s going to scar.”

She reached up slowly, brushing her fingers over the cut, the jagged line that would probably never fade. “Just add it to the list, I guess.” she said quietly. Her voice was light, but there was a hardness in it. She was weary after fighting for so long – fighting to survive, fighting for what’s right, fighting to honour a love that was taken from her before it had a chance to bloom.

Seventy years. And yet, in some ways, she still felt like that woman in the secondhand dress marrying Sergeant Barnes, praying that her husband would come back to her.

He didn’t. But she had kept going regardless.

A quiet silence filled the room as Steve stood up, moving around his small Brooklyn apartment. The soft clinking of dishes and the rhythmic sounds of him making tea or coffee or whatever else he could find to busy his hands was soothing, almost like a lullaby.

She sank back into the cushions, closing her eyes as the pain in her side and the exhaustion in her bones began to catch up with her. She had barely slept the night before, and today had been a nightmare in every definition of the word — a fight with some kind of enhanced being, a near-death experience, and now, Steve was here, keeping her from falling into a darkness she wasn’t sure she could crawl out of alone.

“I’m exhausted,” she murmured, her voice catching slightly. She didn’t need to pretend in front of Steve, not after everything they’d been through.

Steve moved quickly to her side, adjusting the blanket around her, his eyes never leaving her face. He didn’t need to say anything. He simply nodded, a small, concerned smile on his lips as he tucked the blanket around her tighter.

“I’ll stay up,” he said softly, his voice steady and comforting. “Keep an eye out. Sweet dreams, (y/n).”

“Thanks, Stevie.” she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion overwhelmed her.

Her dreams, as they always did, were filled with memories of Bucky. The sound of his laugh, the way he held her hand on their wedding day, the way his arms had felt around her when they said goodbye. And then, the last time she had seen him — the last moment, frozen in time, before everything changed.

“Guess this is it, huh?” His voice was low, filled with both sorrow and resolve.

“So much for a honeymoon.” She smiled, sadly, her fingers brushing over the collar of his uniform. “I just wish I could come with you.”

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, his hands still resting on her face, his thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. “You will. In your own way. You’re going to make a difference, (y/n). You’re gonna help save lives.” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, and she felt it deep in her bones.

"And you’ll be back," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him or herself. "You’ll come back to me."

Bucky gave a faint smile, though it was bittersweet. "I’m coming back," he promised, but the weight of it hung between them. "I swear it."

All she could focus on was the warmth of his touch, the strength of his hand holding hers, the slight tremble in his fingertips that betrayed the fear he wasn’t letting anyone see. The two of them stood there, hand in hand, while the world around them celebrated a union that felt both like the beginning of something beautiful and the end of something they couldn’t protect from the violence of war.

I promised, didn't I! Thank you to everyone who voted on my WIP poll, it was super informative!

Reminder you can join my taglist via the google form here <3 Special thank you to @ironwinnerwonderland who specifically requested Bucky Barnes on the form!

Masterlist

#ws!bucky barnes x avenger!wife!reader #winter soldier #bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier!bucky barnes x reader #avengers!reader #established relationship #steve rogers x reader #avengers #captain america: the winter soldier #captain america: the first avenger #SHIELD #nick fury #avengers fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes

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shybluebirdninja · 30 days ago

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Dominate

Summary: He doesn’t care about the wedding vows—Bucky’s version of marriage is total control, and he’ll make sure you know it.

Pairings : Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Note : non-consensual elements, forced marriage

You should’ve known better than to think Bucky would play by any of the rules. The minute the ring slid on your finger, it wasn’t just a vow to love and cherish—it was a goddamn ownership. That’s what he wanted, what he made sure you understood every time his metal hand gripped your throat just a little too tight, his eyes dark with something dangerous.

Tonight, it felt heavier.

The room was dim, the air thick, and you could feel his presence before he even stepped in. Like a storm about to break, tension crackling all around. Bucky didn’t do soft and sweet. He didn’t do gentle. He did control. Every damn breath you took belonged to him now.

The door creaked, and your stomach tightened. You heard the heavy footsteps, the subtle clink of his metal fingers flexing, the way the air shifted as his massive frame filled the doorway.

“Get up.”

It wasn’t a request. His voice was a low growl, dark, commanding. Your body reacted instantly, muscles tight, your pulse quickening like prey caught in a predator’s snare. You couldn’t defy him, not now. Not ever. The bed was suddenly too soft, too confining, but as you stood, the heat between your legs was undeniable.

Bucky’s eyes raked over you, slow and heavy, as if stripping you with nothing but his gaze. His flesh hand reached out, hooking around your waist, dragging you close enough that you could feel the hard edge of his body pressed against yours. The way his chest rose and fell, the hunger in his eyes—it sent a shiver straight down your spine.

“You scared, doll?” His lips curled into a smirk, breath hot against your ear. “You should be. You belong to me now. Completely.”

His words weren’t romantic. They were a threat, wrapped up in something much darker, much more twisted. He was staking his claim, making sure you knew just how deep this went.

His hands gripped the thin fabric of your dress, tearing it down the middle with a sharp pull. “Fuck the pretty vows,” he growled, his voice like gravel. “You think I care about that shit? I don't give a damn about promises. I only care about you, every fucking inch of you being mine.”

His metal hand traced along your bare skin, cold and unyielding. You whimpered, but the sound only seemed to encourage him, his lips finding the sensitive spot on your neck, biting down hard enough to make you gasp. He chuckled, low and dark. “That’s right, baby. I like hearing you beg.”

You didn’t say anything. Hell, you couldn’t. Words were caught in your throat as his hand slid lower, brushing over your thigh, making you quiver beneath his touch. The roughness of it all—the dominance, the intensity—had your body aching for him in ways that were far from innocent.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his voice rough against your skin. “All needy already, huh? You like being owned, don’t you? Knew you would.” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, biting again, harder this time. “Tell me you fucking love it.”

Your lips parted, the words barely coming out, but that didn’t stop him. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head spin. “Say it.”

“I… I love it,” you whispered, breath hitching.

“Good girl.” His smirk deepened, and his grip tightened, the power behind it leaving you dizzy, craving more. “Gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”

And just like that, he had you pinned against the wall, his hips grinding into yours, hard and demanding. You could feel his arousal pressing against you, and it only made the heat between your legs intensify. His lips found yours, but it wasn’t a kiss—it was an invasion, his tongue dominating yours, owning every bit of you in the process.

He pulled back, panting slightly as he grabbed your jaw roughly, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “You think you can walk away from me?” His tone was mocking, dangerous. “Nah. I’ll fuck you so hard, you won’t even want to.”

Without warning, he flipped you around, your chest pressed against the cold wall as his metal hand gripped your wrists, pinning them above your head. You were completely at his mercy. And Bucky? He fucking loved it.

“You’re gonna scream my name,” he growled into your ear, his breath hot against your neck. “And when you do, you’ll remember this is forever, doll.”

You could feel him behind you, the raw heat of his body pressing into yours as he pushed your legs apart. The tension in the room was thick, electric, as he took his time teasing you, dragging his fingers over your soaked folds. Your body arched, a moan slipping past your lips, but he wasn’t satisfied.

“Not yet,” he hissed, yanking you back by your hair. “You don’t come until I say. Understand?”

Your breath was ragged, heart racing as you nodded frantically. “Y-Yes, Bucky.”

“Good.” He chuckled, dark and low. “You’ll learn to obey.”

Then, without warning, he thrust into you, hard and deep, forcing a cry from your throat. His grip on your hair tightened, pulling you back against him as he moved, relentless and rough, every thrust making your knees buckle. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, and you couldn’t hold back the moans that spilled from your lips.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” he groaned, his voice thick with lust. “Take it. Fucking take it.”

His pace quickened, each thrust more brutal than the last, his body dominating yours in every way possible. The intensity, the rawness—it was overwhelming, consuming, and you loved every second of it.

“I’ll never let you go,” he growled, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he drove into you harder. “You’re mine. Forever.”

You could feel the pressure building, your body trembling as his hand slipped between your legs, rubbing your clit with rough, practiced strokes. He knew exactly how to push you over the edge, and he did it mercilessly.

“Come for me,” he demanded, his breath hot against your ear. “Come on, doll. Let go.”

And you did—shuddering and gasping as the pleasure crashed over you, your body convulsing in his arms. But Bucky wasn’t done. He held you there, his movements never slowing, dragging you through wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure until you were a trembling mess beneath him.

When he finally released you, his grip loosened, and you collapsed against the wall, panting and spent. But Bucky? He was still rock hard, still hungry.

“You think we’re done?” he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement as he pulled you back up. “We’ve only just started, doll.” And as his lips found yours again, rough and demanding, you knew—this wasn’t a marriage. This was a fucking surrender.

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