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buckysleftbicep · 7 days ago

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i’m so glad you enjoyed it!!!! 💓

for better or for worse (4) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, oral sex (f rec), unprotected sex, creampie, unresolved sexual tension, jealousy, possessive!bucky, slow burn-to-explosion, angst

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 4.6k

author's note: hi my loves! i hope you enjoy this chapter!! 💓

series masterlist

The sun poured through gauzy curtains, brushing golden light across the silken sheets—but the space beside you was cold.

Empty.

At first, your half-asleep mind tried to explain it away, maybe Bucky was in the bathroom. Maybe he’d gone for a walk. Maybe he was on the balcony again, brooding over the ocean like he had the first night you got here.

But minute after minute ticked by in silence, and each one carved deeper into the pit of your stomach. Your pulse climbed. The soft rustle of sheets as you sat up sounded impossibly loud in the stillness.

You pushed the covers back and rose to your feet, the cool tiles shocking against your bare skin. Something in your chest thudded—not quite panic yet, but close. You tried the comms, voice low and clipped.

“Yelena? Ava? Anyone?” Nothing.

Just a crackle of static, followed by silence. No signal, no voice.

Your heart rate kicked up, you tapped again, harder this time. “Come on. Don’t do this now.”

Still nothing.

Your hand hovered over the emergency line. It was protocol, something you’d never had to use—a last resort tether. You didn’t want to overreact, but your jaw was clenched, throat thick, fingers trembling faintly.

Because he didn’t just disappear.

Not without a word. Not after last night.

You were about to hit the button when the door clicked. You froze, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding.

It creaked open slowly,

You froze.

Bucky stepped through the threshold with a tray in his hands. He didn’t look rushed or rattled, just composed, like he’d never been gone at all.

Your panic collided with a rush of anger. But all you could do was stare.

“I, uh…” he started, glancing at you as he shut the door behind him. “Got us breakfast. Figured you’d be hungry.”

Your chest heaved once with a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. You nodded stiffly, not trusting yourself to speak. He stood there awkwardly for a beat longer, then gestured vaguely toward the en suite.

“I’ll wash up.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It was thick. Dense. It wrapped around your throat like humidity in a storm, and you hated that he could still do this to you, could disappear and leave you unraveling like a live wire. You turned sharply on your heel and walked to the bathroom, shutting the door behind you a little too hard.

The marble was cool beneath your feet, the steam from the last shower still faintly fogging the mirror. You stared at your reflection, cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes too wide. Still shaken.

You hated it. Hated that one quiet morning could break your control like that. That you’d woken up in that soft bed and your first instinct had been dread.

That it hadn’t been just the mission anymore.

That it was him.

Not of him. Never of him.

But for him.

You gripped the counter edge with both hands and closed your eyes. Inhale, then exhale, deep and even. He was fine. He brought breakfast.

This wasn’t Kabul. This wasn’t Madripoor. You weren’t losing your mind.

A soft buzz crackled in your ear.

“Sweetheart? Comms were down. Sorry. Bob fixed it.” Yelena’s voice chirped in casually, like you hadn’t just been seconds away from spiraling. “You okay? What happened last night? You two sounded…off”

She let the sentence trail off—not coy, exactly. But definitely fishing.

You swallowed. “It was fine,” you said too quickly. Too sharp. “Nothing happened.”

A pause. Then the unmistakable crunch of something in her mouth.

“Mhm. Sure,” she said flatly. “If you say so honey.”

You pulled the robe tighter around your waist and sighed.

By the time you emerged, Bucky had already set the table on the balcony. The scent of coffee and warm syrup hung in the morning air, soft and too domestic for the state of your chest.

The sun cast golden slants across the plates, silverware gleaming under the soft breeze. Bucky stood with his back to you, one hand braced on the railing, gazing out at the horizon like he hadn’t just sent you into a tailspin.

When you joined him, he turned and offered you a plate.

Omelettes. Sausages. And chocolate chip pancakes.

Your throat caught.

“I… didn’t know you remembered these.”

He gave a half-shrug, avoiding your eyes. “You said it once. When Walker got diner duty in New York. Thought you liked ’em.”

You sat down slowly, the chair cool beneath your thighs. Appetite gone, you stared at your plate, twisting the tines of your fork into the edge of a pancake you didn’t touch. The silence stretched again, thicker now, tinged with something raw.

It was you who broke it.

“About last night…”

Bucky didn’t flinch, but you caught the way his fingers tightened just slightly around his coffee mug. His expression didn’t change, but something in the way he held himself shifted.

“Yeah?” he said finally.

You hesitated. Then: “I didn’t mean for it to get, I don’t know. That close.”

He met your eyes over the rim of his cup.

“Neither did I.”

You waited, hoping he would say something more. That he’d reach across the table or crack a smile or offer something, anything, that might give you clarity.

Instead, he cleared his throat and looked away.

“We should stay professional,” he said, voice even. “Makes things less complicated.”

The words hit you square in the chest. Your stomach dropped. Your hands curled under the table.

“Is that what I am to you?” you asked, quietly. “Complicated?”

He blinked. His brow furrowed, just slightly. “I didn’t—”

“Just stop, Bucky,” you said, cutting him off, your voice barely holding together. “Let’s just finish the mission and go home.”

He didn’t respond.

And for the second time that morning, silence swallowed you whole.

The rest of the week was a lesson in discipline, in restraint. You and Bucky slipped into your roles like second skin—Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, honeymooners flush with love and lust.

Your movements in public were seamless. Your interactions, flawless. To an outsider, you were enamored, addicted. The kind of couple that made heads turn in envy.

But behind the perfect facade, every glance, every touch simmered with unspoken tension. The silence that stretched in private was deafening, unbearable in its weight. It was a performance—a painfully convincing one. And it was starting to eat you alive.

At breakfast the following day, you sat on the open-air veranda with a glass of fresh juice sweating between your fingers. The sea breeze tousled your hair, and Bucky sat across from you in his crisp white button-down and sunglasses, the picture of effortless masculinity.

You were midway through pretending to laugh at something he said when Andrei strolled past your table.

“Morning, lyubimaya (darling)” he purred, espresso in hand, his grin oily and practiced. He didn’t even look at Bucky when he said it.

Before you could speak, Bucky’s arm slid around your shoulders, dragging you in until your body pressed tight against his side. His fingers flexed possessively along your collarbone.

You barely had time to react before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple—slow, deliberate, searing.

His lips lingered just a second too long.

Your throat went tight, pulse thrumming at your neck. The moment passed, but the phantom burn of his mouth remained. Andrei didn’t stop, but you felt the weight of his stare as he moved on, the air behind him thick with suspicion and something darker.

Moments like that repeated themselves.

At the pool, when Fred and Layna struck up a conversation about the spa packages, Bucky played his part perfectly. You listened and laughed on cue, legs dipped in the water, sunglasses perched on your nose.

And every now and then, Bucky’s hand found your waist, casual, proprietary, his thumb brushing slow, idle circles against your bare skin beneath the thin fabric of your wrap.

When Fred made some bland, slightly flirtatious comment about your laugh, Bucky didn’t say anything. But his hand slid higher, fingers splaying across your ribs like a silent warning. A boundary. His grip wasn’t rough, but it lingered, just firm enough to remind everyone who you belonged to, at least in front of others.

You didn’t pull away. But your breath hitched all the same. He smiled as the conversation continued, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

That night, you walked with him hand-in-hand along one of the garden paths that wrapped around the west wing of the resort. The lanterns overhead cast dappled shadows along the stone walkway.

You tried to breathe in the scent of sea salt and hibiscus, tried to lose yourself in the illusion of warm intimacy. Your dress clung to your body from the heat, and his hand in yours felt both grounding and suffocating.

A group of guests passed by—loud, laughing—and among them,

Andrei.

His gaze caught yours, amused. Expectant.

You barely lifted your chin to acknowledge him when Bucky stopped short.

Before you could say a word, he turned and backed you into the nearest marble column.

Then his mouth was on yours.

There was nothing polite about it. No finesse. Just heat and pressure and a clash of teeth as his hands pinned your waist, body flush against yours like a shield. The kiss was possessive. Aggressive.

You could hear Andrei’s footsteps fading down the path—but your brain couldn’t process anything but the way Bucky’s body felt pressed tight against yours, the way his tongue curled hot and angry into your mouth.

When he pulled away, his lips hovered near yours, breathing hard.

“Just doing my job,” he muttered.

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

You stood there in silence as he turned and kept walking, leaving you trembling against the column with your mouth still tingling and your knees barely steady.

The act continued.

Holding hands at dinner. His fingers trailing down your bare back as you leaned over a blackjack table. Kisses to your shoulder while you lounged by the pool, sunglasses hiding your eyes, heart pounding with every brush of his lips.

His hand would often rest on your thigh beneath the linen tablecloth. His voice would drop low when others were near.

Every contact was calculated. Every movement choreographed.

But the ache growing inside you wasn’t.

And the worst part? He was so good at pretending, it almost broke you.

Because sometimes, sometimes, it didn’t feel like an act.

Like the way his hand would tighten when someone else looked at you too long. Or the way his jaw flexed when you wore something a little too revealing. Or the way his gaze lingered on your lips when you weren’t talking, like he wanted to kiss you but didn’t trust himself to stop again.

He didn’t say anything. He never did.

But you could feel it, thick and heavy in the space between you.

And then he’d pull away. Go cold. Professional.

It made you want to scream.

That night, you lay in bed beside him, facing the opposite direction. The sheets were warm from his body, but the distance between you felt like a chasm. You stared at the ceiling, counting the sound of the waves outside.

One. Two. Three.

You remembered the way he’d said, “You looked good today,” after your cover-dance with Layna. The way his eyes had dragged down the slope of your shoulder when your dress slipped during the mock twirl. The way he looked like he might burn through you with the heat in his stare.

And yet, he hadn’t touched you since. Not when you returned to the suite, not when you changed, not when you climbed into the same bed.

He hadn’t even looked at you.

You hated him for it. For being so cruelly good at making it feel real, only to take it back the second the curtain dropped.

But not nearly as much as you hated yourself. Because you wanted it again. Wanted him again.

And the worst part?

You didn’t know if it was because of the mission… or in spite of it.

The evening air buzzed with the low hum of the resort’s ambient music, barely audible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your silk cover-up from earlier, legs tucked beneath you as the comms unit clicked to life on the table. Bucky stood beside it, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen.

The moment Val’s image flickered into focus, you felt the static tension in the room shift— like the crackle before lightning strikes.

“Well, it’s about damn time,” Val snapped, lips pressed in a tight line. “You two have been living in luxury for ten days now, and you’re telling me you’ve got absolutely nothing?”

You straightened instinctively, fingers curling against the fabric of your robe. “We’ve been gathering patterns, watching contacts. Andrei’s circling. He’s brought up Raskovic a few times, but nothing concrete yet—”

“I don’t want patterns,” she bit out. “I want results. Raskovic hasn’t slipped. No suspicious transfers. No hard evidence. You were supposed to be our in.”

Bucky’s jaw twitched, but he stayed silent. You pushed on. “We’re trying, but things are delicate. Too much too fast and they’ll get spooked. They’ll know—”

Val leaned forward, her eyes sharp, voice clipped. “You call this trying? Sounds to me like you’re not pushing hard enough. Not doing your damn part.”

You flinched. The words hit harder than they should’ve— because some part of you feared she was right. The days were blurring into each other. The mission was dragging. And maybe, just maybe, you were letting your emotions compromise your focus.

But before you could speak, Bucky’s voice cut through the silence, low, even, laced with steel.

“Back off.”

Val raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I said back off,” Bucky repeated, stepping forward, arms still crossed but posture charged.

“She’s done everything you asked. She’s played her part, charmed half the inner circle, and kept her cover airtight—despite having to flirt with these smug bastards. So if there’s a problem with our progress, maybe it’s the shitty intel we were given. Not her.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Even Val blinked, momentarily thrown. You stared at Bucky, something coiling tight in your chest. The protectiveness in his tone had been fierce. Unflinching, almost intimate.

He didn’t even look at you. Just kept his gaze trained on the monitor, breathing steady.

Val’s expression shifted. She leaned back, mouth pursing.

“Fine,” she said after a beat. “You want to run interference for your partner? Go ahead. But get something, Barnes. I don’t care if both of you have to fuck your way through the entire guest list—I want names. Accounts. Routes. Do you hear me?”

“We’ll get it,” Bucky said flatly. “You’ll have it soon.”

The comms clicked off.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, quietly, you murmured, “Thanks.”

He turned then—just slightly—enough for his eyes to meet yours. And the look there made your stomach drop.

He remembered.

You could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard. He remembered the night in the elevator—how close it had gotten.

Your back against the wall, his mouth inches from yours, his hand gripping your thigh like he couldn’t help it. He remembered the way your voice had trembled when he whispered in your ear, the way you’d touched him and how he hadn’t stopped you.

You didn’t answer. For a moment, you weren’t sure you could. The air between you had gone still, thick with something raw, unresolved, something too close to everything you were both trying to avoid.

“And, you’re not complicated,” he adds, so quiet you almost missed it.

You blinked. “What?”

He shook his head. “Forget it.”

“No.” You stood slowly, closing the space between you, the silk of your robe whispering against your thighs. “Say it again.”

His jaw flexed. He didn’t step back, but his whole body went still. That flicker of hesitation in his eyes, that crack of something hot and dangerous—it only pushed you forward.

“Say I’m not complicated. Say it’s all pretend,” you whispered, chin tilted up. “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about it. About me.”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Don’t do this.”

“Why not?” you pressed. “You scared I’ll make you feel something?”

That was all it took.

Bucky crashed into you like a breaking dam, hands gripping your waist and the back of your neck as he kissed you like he was furious. His mouth claimed yours hard and hot, tongue pushing past your lips as he backed you toward the nearest wall.

You gasped into it, fisting the fabric of his shirt, barely keeping up as he devoured every breath like it belonged to him.

He broke away just long enough to rasp, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Then do it,” you hissed. “Stop pretending.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you without a word.

Your breath hitched as his hands gripped your hips, strong, purposeful, sliding up the curve of your waist. One sharp tug loosed the sash of your robe, and the silk fell open with a whisper. You hadn’t bothered with underwear underneath, and when his gaze dropped to your bare skin, he made a sound you’d never heard from him before, low, almost desperate.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging the fabric down your arms and letting it pool at your feet. “Look at you.”

Then he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder and leaned in.

The first stroke of his tongue was like setting fire to your nerves.

You gasped, one hand bracing against the wall behind you as his mouth latched onto your clit, no hesitation. He groaned into you, tongue flicking and circling before sliding lower, licking through your folds like he meant to memorize every inch. His grip tightened on your thigh, keeping you spread wide, open to him, helpless as he devoured you.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

Your voice cracked as he sucked harder, tongue pressing into you, he was relentless, obscene with how messy he got—spit and slick dripping down your thighs, his beard glistening, his fingers digging bruises into your hips to keep you steady. You were panting, shaking, already so close you could barely breathe.

He flattened his tongue and dragged it up slowly, groaning like he was addicted. “This pussy’s been mine all fucking week,” he said against you. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

You didn’t even get a response out, just a shattered moan as you came hard, thighs trembling, back arched off the wall as heat exploded through your core.

He didn’t stop, kept licking and sucking through it, until your legs threatened to give out and you were clawing at his shoulders to get away.

When he stood, his mouth was wet, his pupils blown wide. He grabbed your face and kissed you again—deep, filthy, tongue fucking into your mouth with the taste of you still fresh on his lips.

Then, rough and breathless, “Bed. Now.”

You stumbled to the mattress, dazed, still high from your orgasm. Bucky followed, shoving his pants down far enough to free his cock—thick, hard, the flushed tip leaking.

You moaned at the sight of it, spreading your legs for him.

He climbed over you and pressed the head of his cock through your folds, dragging it along your soaked slit.

“Goddamn, baby,” he growled. “You’re fucking dripping.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, until he bottomed out. You cried out, the stretch perfect and brutal all at once.

“Fuuuck—”

“You kept pushing,” he rasped. “You knew what it’d do to me.”

“So stop holding back,” you whispered.

He snapped his hips forward.

You gasped, fingers clawing at his back as he started to move—hard, fast, deep, his cock slamming into you like he’d been dying for it. He fucked you like he wanted to ruin you, dragging you up the bed with every thrust, his hands gripping your thighs as he drove into you with mindless, brutal rhythm.

“Bucky—” you sobbed. “God—Bucky, I’m—”

“That’s it,” he gritted out. “Cum for me sweetheart, I wanna feel you.”

He reached down between you and rubbed tight circles on your clit, matching the punishing pace of his thrusts. You came fast, harder than before—your body locking up, eyes rolling back as your orgasm ripped through you.

“Fuck—fuck—”

“Good girl,” he groaned, fucking you through it. “Taking it so fucking well.”

Your walls fluttered around him, soaking his cock, and he cursed under his breath, hips stuttering.

“I’m not gonna last,” he gritted, voice ragged. “You feel so fucking good—”

“Come inside,” you gasped. “I don’t care. I need it. Please—”

That was it.

Bucky slammed into you once, twice, then buried himself to the hilt with a raw, guttural groan as he came—hot and deep, his cock twitching inside you as he filled you completely.

He collapsed on top of you, breathing hard, his mouth pressed to your neck.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Then, after a beat, he whispered, voice raw:

“This isn’t just a mission to me.”

You turned your head just enough to see his face, still close, still flushed with heat.

And you didn’t say a word.

Because for the first time since this mission started—you finally believed him.

You didn’t move and neither did he. The moment held, delicate and loaded, like a breath neither of you dared to let go.

The hours that followed passed in a kind of hush—not silent, but suspended.

Bucky didn’t pull away, not right away, he stayed close. His hand remained on your hip while your heartbeat slowed beneath his touch. You lay tangled together in the warm hush of the suite, moonlight pooling on the sheets, the ocean crashing far below like a distant pulse.

At some point, he brushed your cheek with his knuckles and murmured, “We should get some rest.”

You didn’t argue.

He pulled the duvet over you both, and you curled into his chest without hesitation. The lines between real and pretend had already blurred past recognition.

There was only the feel of his body next to yours. The weight of everything unsaid. The quiet terror that maybe this was temporary—a consequence of proximity, adrenaline, heat.

And yet, you fell asleep to the sound of his breathing, steady and close.

The next evening arrived with little warning.

You dressed in silence, but it wasn’t the silence from before. It wasn’t cold or stiff, it was charged, waiting. Your eyes met in the mirror as you adjusted the delicate straps of your black slip dress, and Bucky’s lingered just a second too long.

The secure tablet buzzed against the nightstand. You crossed the suite and tapped the screen, perching on the edge of the armchair as the brunette adjusted the cuffs of his charcoal shirt in the mirror.

“Copy,” you said quietly when the line connected. “We’ve got movement. Andrei’s going to be at the restaurant tonight. We’ll be there too, we need to get closer.”

Yelena came in first, her voice even but alert. “You think he’s testing you?”

“Feels like it,” Bucky said, stepping into view behind you.

“He initiated contact?” Ava asked.

“He did,” you confirmed. “This afternoon, said he was going to be at this dinner thing, told us to come.”

There was a pause. Then John chimed in. “You expecting Raskovic?”

“We don’t know yet,” you said. “But it’s possible. Andrei’s acting like someone’s watching him.”

“Then assume someone is,” Ava said flatly. “If Raskovic wants to get a read on you, he won’t make it obvious.”

“We’ll be careful,” Bucky said.

“We’ll scan the floor from our end,” Yelena added. “No chatter from the VIP suites yet, but Bob flagged some encrypted calls coming in from offshore.”

You met Bucky’s eyes for a moment before replying. “We’ll stay close, just keep eyes on the exits. If anything shifts—”

“We’re already listening,” Yelena cut in. “Stay sharp.”

Bucky ended the line with a quiet tap. Silence fell again—not heavy, but loaded.

You stood, smoothing your palms down the sides of your black dress.

“Let’s go,” you said, voice steady.

He looked at you like he had something else to say.

But he didn’t. He just nodded.

The restaurant shimmered like something out of a dream.

Carved teakwood latticework framed the walls, filtering the amber glow of chandeliers strung like starlight above velvet-covered tables.

It smelled of seared wagyu and truffle oil, the air humming with soft jazz and the faint clink of cutlery. Waitstaff in gold-threaded uniforms moved like dancers across the polished marble floors.

You sat across from Bucky in a secluded alcove, half-hidden behind lush tropical plants, a private view of the moonlit ocean beyond the arched glass doors.

Bucky looked unfairly good in that collared shirt, open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins in his flesh arm flexing as he sipped from a glass of Yamazaki.

He hadn’t said much, but his eyes had barely left you all night. Not with the way your leg crossed over the other and the way your lip wrapped around the rim of your tequila cocktail.

You hadn’t meant to torture him. Not entirely.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he murmured finally, his voice quiet beneath the music, laced with something darker.

You sipped again. “So do you.”

His mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite. Just the smallest hint of tension breaking through.

That’s when the shadow fell over your table.

Andrei wore a custom-tailored suit in midnight navy, the lapel pinned with a gleaming insignia you didn’t recognise, some blend of family crest and blood-stained money. His cologne hit before his voice did, expensive, overwhelming, suffocating.

“You two make quite the pair,” he said, lifting a crystal glass of something dark and expensive. “Mind if I interrupt?”

Bucky’s jaw locked, but he said nothing.

You gestured smoothly to the empty seat beside you. “By all means.”

Andrei took it with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “My boss has noticed you,” he said, eyes flicking between you and Bucky like a predator scenting blood. “James and his beautiful bride.”

Bucky leaned back slightly, one arm draped over the chair behind you. He was projecting calm, but you felt the tension vibrating through him. His fingers ghosted over your bare shoulder, a subtle but unmistakable move. You didn’t move away.

Andrei continued. “He’s… curious. Interested in what you might offer. In what kinds of partnerships you and your husband are open to.” His lips curled. “So he’s invited you both to a private dinner. Just the four of us. Tomorrow night at the penthouse wing.”

“Four?” Bucky asked, voice edged in steel.

Andrei nodded. “Myself. You two. And Raskovic.”

The name landed like a gunshot.

Raskovic, the ghost in the mission file, the man they’d only seen from a distance, always flanked by guards or hidden behind reflective glass.

The boss. The target.

You felt Bucky’s posture shift beside you, not outwardly, but enough. Enough to know he was already calculating, adjusting, preparing. His hand squeezed your shoulder just once, barely noticeable to anyone but you.

“Tell him we’d be honoured,” you said, smiling as you reached for Bucky’s hand and laced your fingers through his, projecting everything they expected of you. “We’ve been dying to meet the man pulling the strings.”

Andrei’s grin widened, sharp and knowing. “Good,” he said as he stood. “I’ll have a car sent.”

He left as swiftly as he came, disappearing into the velvet-draped crowd.

You stayed frozen for a moment, your fingers still threaded with Bucky’s under the candlelight. Then, slowly, you turned to look at him.

“This is it,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours, like he wasn’t sure what came next.

But even then, you could tell—something had changed.

a/n: and that's chapter 4! i am halfway through proofreading chapter 5 and i'm so excited to have it posted! please remember to leave a comment or reblog, it keeps me motivated! thank you!

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