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Let it be known that you are not a screamer. You’re not terribly experienced, you’ll admit, but you have had boyfriends. You’d thought that they had left you satisfied – at most, panting against the sheets, eyes screwed shut. But James Buchanan Barnes was a whole other monster in bed.
It’s a mission in Italy – a mission that’s not really a mission, but you’ve got fake names and a ring on your wedding finger and when you sign into the hotel you both grin and introduce yourself as The Morrisons, all lovey-dovey and enamoured. Which isn’t that hard to act, in all honesty.
It’s sickeningly domestic – holding hands and fiddling with each other’s rings and calling yourself Mister and Missus Morrison – but it must’ve done something to your boyfriend because–
“How many rounds was that? Four? God, we’re about to break our own record.” Even he’s panting, dropped to his elbows above you, hair hanging in tendrils around his face.
Yes. It was round four. Round one started on the plane – first class, of course, because a private jet was too flashy but Tony said he felt sick making you newlyweds fly commercial. He had slid his hands down your skirt and left you dripping and aching to cum, waited until you reached the airport and then sneaked you both into the toilet. He had bent you so fucking weirdly that your hips still hurt – but he’d made you cum twice so you couldn’t really be mad at him.
Round two was in the car sent to pick you up from the airport. He’d rolled up the shaded partition and pulled you onto his lap, biting at your neck and grinding your hips against the bulge in his pants. You had rucked up your skirt and rode him, and you distinctly remember that when he came he clutched your hand and kissed the ring there.
Round 3 and 4 came directly after the second, in the honeymoon suite of a romantic Italian hotel room. Flat on your stomach, Bucky had fucked you through three whole orgasms before he came – and then he’d went again, and here you were. Oversensitive and shaking and trembling and fucking tired.
So yeah, the whole marriage thing was affecting your super-soldier boyfriend in the most positive way possible.
“I can’t move,” you groan, rubbing your face against the silken sheets. “What the fuck is your problem, Barnes?"
"What can I say?” Another smattering of kisses is placed on your shoulder, and you can’t help yourself. You melt into him, eyes fluttering shut. “Somethin’ about seein’ you with a ring on your finger, baby…"
And your heart stutters, really, but–
"Bucky, I swear to God,” you threaten as you feel him beginning to stiffen inside you. You feel your chest tighten at the drag of his cock against your walls – too fucking sensitive–
"I–I can’t take anymore – I will literally fucking scream if we go again–"
(And again, you’re not a screamer. But this is pulling your leg.)
His left hand – his metal hand – clasps over yours. The gold of your matching bands glints in the afternoon light, and for a second you really, really imagine yourself in the place of this Mrs. Jacqueline Morrison with Bucky. Mrs. Bucky Barnes.
…That turns you on more than you’d like to admit.
“You better muffle yourself with a pillow then, because I’m not stopping, wifey…“ His lips drop to your ear, and you shiver instinctively– "After all, it’s our honeymoon, ain’t it?”