The clang of metal rings out across the Avengers’ training room, echoing off the reinforced walls. You’re supposed to be sparring, hand-to-hand drills, testing speed and reflexes, but your eyes are glued to the far corner of the room where Bucky Barnes is bench-pressing like it’s a goddamn porn audition.

Sweat beads along his temples, darkening his hair at the edges. His grey t-shirt is plastered to his chest, and every time he lowers the barbell to his chest and pushes it back up again, his muscles strain in a way that makes your stomach flip and your thighs press together.

He’s not even showing off. Not grunting, not straining, hust existing. And that’s the problem.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath, pretending to stretch but really just watching the way his jaw flexes when he exhales through his nose. “How is he so fucking slutty all the time?”

Natasha, across the mat from you, doesn’t even look up from adjusting her gloves. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not staring,” you lie. “I’m… observing.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Scientific reasons.”

“Uh-huh.”

Before you can defend yourself further, Bucky racks the weights and sits up, swiping a towel over his face. And then, because the universe hates you, he rolls his broad shoulders back, stretches his arms overhead, and you catch the glimpse of taut abs when his shirt rides up.

You choke on your water bottle.

Bucky glances over, one brow raised, that infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth. He knows. He fucking knows.

“Y’alright over there, doll?” His voice carries easily across the room, rich and low, wrapping around you like velvet.

You glare at him weakly, cheeks heating. “You’re disgusting.”

He laughs, short and amused. “What’d I do now?”

“You—you can’t just—” You gesture helplessly at his entire existence. “—do that.”

His grin widens. “Do what? Work out?”

“Do anything,” you snap. “You can’t just breathe near me looking like that. It’s slutty.”

Natasha actually snorts from the corner, muttering something about being too sober for this conversation.

Bucky’s smirk sharpens into something wolfish. He drapes the towel over his shoulders, striding toward you with an ease that should be illegal. Every step makes your pulse thrum harder, and you hate how much you love it.

“Slutty, huh?” he murmurs when he stops in front of you, towering close enough that you smell the faint mix of clean sweat and his woodsy cologne. “That’s what we’re callin’ it?”

You cross your arms, looking up at him defiantly even as your heart pounds. “Yeah. Slutty. You make lifting weights look obscene, and you know it.”

Bucky chuckles, leaning down just enough to brush his lips against your ear, his breath hot on your skin. “If you think this is obscene, doll, wait ‘til you see what I can do when I’m actually tryin’.”

Your breath catches, and he straightens with a wicked glint in his eye, leaving you vibrating in place like a live wire.

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The thing about Bucky Barnes is that he doesn’t even need to be shirtless, sweaty, or benching half a ton to ruin you. No. He ruins you simply by existing in your shared apartment like it’s nothing.

This morning, you find him in the kitchen. Hair damp from a shower, tied up in a loose bun. Grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. A fitted black henley rolled up to the elbows, showing off forearms that should be studied in a lab.

He’s making coffee. Just… making coffee. Scooping grounds, pouring water into the machine, leaning lazily against the counter as he sets his watch on his wrist with practiced ease.

You’re halfway to drooling.

“Unbelievable,” you whisper to yourself, leaning in the doorway.

Bucky glances over, eyebrow raised. “What now, sweetheart?”

“You,” you accuse, striding toward him. “You’re obscene. Slutty.”

He blinks, actually laughs. “For makin’ coffee?”

“Yes! You’ve got no business looking that good putting your watch on. You know how ridiculous that is?”

His smirk spreads slow, like honey dripping. “What, this?” He deliberately flexes his wrist as he fastens the clasp, veins and tendons shifting under his skin.

You groan, covering your face. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Baby,” he chuckles, reaching out to tug your hands down, forcing you to look at him. His thumb brushes your jaw. “I’m literally just existing.”

“That’s the problem!” You jab a finger into his chest. “You’re so—so slutty all the time. Breathing. Standing. Drinking coffee. I can’t even look at you without wanting to—”

Your words cut off because his smirk sharpens, dark and dangerous. “Without wantin’ to what?”

You bite your lip. “You know.”

His gaze drops to your mouth, lingers there before sliding back up to your eyes. His voice drops, low and teasing. “Say it.”

You flush, heat pooling between your thighs already. “Without wanting to climb you like a fucking tree.”

His laugh is dark and satisfied, head tipping back before he looks at you again. “Christ, doll. You’re lucky I love you, ‘cause you’re insufferable when you’re horny.”

“Lucky?” you echo, indignant. “You’re the one walking around here looking like that.”

He leans in, lips brushing yours as he murmurs, “Guess that makes us both lucky, then.”

And then he kisses you, slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world. Which would be fine, except the kiss only makes you hungrier. You whine against his mouth, fisting his shirt, pressing your body flush to his.

Bucky groans, pulling back just enough to smirk. “Coffee first, sweetheart.”

You glare at him, breathless. “I hate you.”

He grins, pecking your lips again. “No, you don’t.”

And the worst part? He’s right.

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The compound is quiet for once. No alarms, no training schedules, no Tony blasting AC/DC through the halls. Just peace.

You’re wandering toward the common room, phone in hand, when you hear the faint scrape of a chair.

And then you see him.

Bucky’s lounging on the couch, one arm thrown over the back, the other holding a book open. His hair is down, falling around his face in waves. His Henley is stretched across his chest like it’s two sizes too small, and his glasses, those fucking reading glasses, are perched low on his nose.

You stop dead in the doorway.

Oh, no. No no no. This is unfair. Illegal, even.

You feel your knees weaken, a rush of heat shooting straight through your body. The air feels too heavy, your chest tight. You actually press a hand to your sternum like you’ve been winded, muttering to yourself, “Slut. Absolute slut.”

Bucky glances up, brow raised. “Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?”

You stalk closer, tossing your phone on the table. “Yeah. You.”

He smirks, adjusting his glasses as he marks his page with a finger. “What’d I do this time?”

“Existing,” you snap, dropping onto the couch beside him. “Reading. Breathing. Looking like—like that.” You wave a hand vaguely at him, too flustered to form coherent words.

His smirk deepens, voice dropping. “Like what?”

“Like you jumped straight out of my my wet dreams,” you hiss, grabbing his shirt and tugging him toward you.

Before he can answer, you’re kissing him, hungry, messy, nothing like the slow teasing of the kitchen. Your teeth catch his lip, your tongue presses inside, and Bucky groans low in his chest, dropping the book to cup your jaw.

“Jesus, doll,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You’re insatiable.”

“You do this on purpose,” you growl, climbing into his lap, straddling him.

His grin is wicked. “What, sittin’ here readin’?”

“With the glasses,” you accuse, tugging them off and tossing them onto the table. “You know what you look like.”

He chuckles, leaning back, letting you pin him with your glare. “Maybe I do. What’re you gonna do about it?”

You smirk. “This.”

You slide off his lap, sinking to your knees between his spread thighs before he can blink.

“Baby—fuck,” he hisses, his head tipping back as your hands tug at the waistband of his sweats. “We’re in the common room.”

“Then be quiet,” you purr, tugging him free.

The sight of him, hard and heavy in your hand, makes your mouth water. You wrap your lips around the flushed tip, sucking slow and deliberate just to watch his composure crack.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, hands flying to your hair. His hips twitch up, betraying him.

You drag your tongue down the thick vein, then take him deeper, gagging softly as you swallow him halfway. His thighs flex under your palms, his grip tightening.

“Sweet girl,” he rasps, his voice wrecked already. “God, you’re so fuckin’ good at this—always so hungry for me.”

You hum around him, the vibrations making his cock twitch against your tongue. His groan is guttural, his head dropping back against the couch as his chest heaves.

“Look at you,” he pants, guiding your movements. “On your knees in the damn common room, suckin’ me off like you’re starved. What if someone walks in, huh?”

You pull off just enough to smirk up at him, spit slicking your chin. “Then they’ll know how slutty you are, sittin’ here letting me do this.”

His laugh is sharp, cut off by a strangled moan as you take him all the way down, nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. His thighs tremble, his hands clench.

“Fuck—baby, m’not gonna last—” he groans, trying and failing to pull you back.

You grip his thighs, nails digging in, swallowing around him until his whole body jerks.

“Sweetheart, fuck—comin’—”

He spills down your throat with a shattered cry, hips bucking despite his attempt to stay composed. Tears prick his eyes behind his glasses, his chest heaving as you milk him through it, licking and swallowing until he collapses back against the couch.

You finally pull off, licking your lips, smirking wickedly. “Still think I’m insatiable?”

Bucky stares at you like you’ve knocked years off his life. “You’re gonna kill me, pretty girl.”

You grin, leaning in to kiss him, spit-slick, filthy, perfect. “Worth it.”

And just as he pulls you back into his lap, just as you’re grinding against him again, you both freeze at the sound of footsteps in the hall.

Bucky’s eyes widen. Yours do, too.

You both hold your breath.

The footsteps fade.

Bucky exhales, then bursts out laughing, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re fuckin’ insane.”

“Maybe,” you whisper, biting his lip. “But you love me.”

“God help me,” he groans, already hardening again under you. “Yeah, I do.”

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You don’t know why you agreed to this.

Actually—you do. Because Bucky had asked, voice soft, hand warm on your waist, murmuring something about “we could use a normal date, doll.” And you’d melted. Obviously.

So now you’re here, strolling hand in hand through a mall like you’re not two Avengers who could snap a wrist with a flick. You should be normal. Window shopping. Grabbing coffee. People-watching.

Instead, you’re seconds away from losing your mind.

Because Bucky, your sweet, infuriating boyfriend, is being the sluttiest man alive without even trying.

His henley is rolled to the elbows, showing off veiny forearms as he carries your bags like they weigh nothing. His reading glasses are tucked into the collar of his shirt, catching the light every time he shifts. He’s chewing gum, jaw flexing, hair tied back loosely at the nape of his neck.

And then, like a cherry on the slut-sundae, he leans down to kiss your temple. Just a brush of lips, casual and tender.

It’s your undoing.

You choke on your iced latte, stopping dead in the middle of the walkway.

Bucky looks back, confused. “What’s wrong?”

You stare at him, eyes wide, chest heaving. “You.”

His brows knit. “Me?”

“You’re—fuck, Bucky, you’re so—” You tug him toward the nearest hallway, away from the crowd, practically dragging him along by his wrist.

“Angel—what—?”

The sign ahead reads Restrooms.

He catches on immediately, lips twitching into a smirk. “Oh.”

You shove him into the family restroom, lock the door behind you, and whirl on him.

“You think you can just—” you’re already crowding into his space, shoving his bags aside, “—walk around being slutty? In public? With me right there?”

Bucky grins, backing against the wall. “Slutty? Baby, I was just holdin’ your hand.”

“Exactly.” You grab his jaw, kissing him hard, tongue pushing into his mouth before he can quip again. He groans, his hands immediately finding your hips, sliding under your shirt.

“Jesus, doll,” he pants when you break for air. “You’re wound up tight.”

“You’re wound up,” you growl, tugging at his belt.

He catches your wrists, pinning them briefly against the wall, eyes gleaming. “Slow down. You want me that bad?”

“Yes,” you snap, writhing under his hold. “Now shut up and fuck me.”

That does it. His smirk slips, his pupils blow wide, and he hauls you up against him in one smooth motion, your back pressed to the wall, his mouth devouring yours.

By the time your legs are wrapped around his waist, you’ve got his cock out, stroking him fast and messy.

Bucky hisses, burying his face in your neck. “Oh, fuck, doll—always so eager for me. My filthy girl.”

You gasp when his metal hand slides under your skirt, cool fingers parting your folds. He finds your clit instantly, circling slow, and your hips buck against his.

“Fuck, Bucky—” you whimper, stroking him harder.

His groan is guttural, hot breath hitting your ear. “Feelin’ how hard you make me? You’ve got me like this just from walkin’ through the mall with you. You’re the slutty one, sweetheart.”

You moan, clutching at his shoulders, rocking into his hand. His fingers sink inside you, curling deep, and your knees tremble around his waist.

“God, baby,” he whispers, voice breaking, “you’re so wet already. My perfect girl. Always so ready for me.”

You stroke him faster, his cock leaking into your hand, thick and heavy. “Come for me,” you beg, desperate. “Please, Bucky, I need it—”

His forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath ragged. “Fuck, you’re killin’ me—say it again.”

“Come for me,” you whimper, squeezing his cock. “Make me messy. Please, Buck—”

He groans loud enough you pray no one’s outside the door, fingers plunging deeper as his cock jerks in your grip. “Sweet girl—god, you’re doing so good for me—fuck—I can’t—”

He’s spilling across your fist at the same time your orgasm rips through you, his fingers fucking you through it as his come paints your hand.

You both collapse against the wall, panting, trembling, clinging to each other like you’ll drown without it.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mutters, pressing frantic kisses to your jaw, your cheek, your mouth. “What the fuck are you doin’ to me, doll? You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin weakly, still catching your breath. “Worth it.”

And then his fingers slide back between your thighs, already circling your clit again.

Your eyes fly wide. “Bucky—”

“Didn’t say I was done,” he murmurs against your lips, wicked. “Gotta make sure my good girl’s satisfied. Hold on tight.”

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The restroom smells faintly of antiseptic and cheap soap, humming with the flicker of fluorescent lights above. It’s nothing glamorous—white tile, a scratched-up mirror, a metal sink that drips every few secondss.

But right now, it feels like the center of the universe.

Because Bucky Barnes has you pinned against the sink, his cock buried inside you, and the only thing you can see in that fogging mirror is the wreck you’ve already become.

Your hair is mussed, your lipstick smeared, your skirt bunched up around your waist. Your panties are dangling off one ankle, half-forgotten. And behind you, looming, broad, flushed, is Bucky. His shirt’s wrinkled, collar askew from your fists tugging, his hair escaping the tie at his neck, his glasses tucked away in his pocket like he couldn’t be bothered.

He’s gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, rutting into you with a steady force that makes the sink squeak against the wall.

You whimper, your forehead knocking the glass. “Bucky—oh god—”

“Uh-uh.” His voice is low, rough, commanding. You feel his metal hand slide up your stomach, cold against overheated skin, until it wraps around your throat. He tilts your chin up with just enough pressure to make your knees wobble. “Eyes up, pretty girl. Look.”

You blink, trying to steady yourself. The mirror shows everything: the way your tits bounce with every thrust, the wet sheen between your thighs, the way his cock disappears inside you over and over.

“See that?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. “See how messy you are for me? How you’re drippin’ down your thighs, makin’ a fuckin’ mess all over my cock?”

You bite your lip, whimpering as your pussy clenches around him.

His eyes narrow in the mirror. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” you choke out, voice trembling under his grip. “I’m messy for you, Bucky—”

He smirks, leaning down to kiss your shoulder, sweat dampening his temple. “My good girl. My perfect girl. Look how well you take me.” His thrusts deepen, angling just right, and you cry out when he brushes your g-spot.

Your nails claw at the sink, slipping against the damp porcelain. “Fuck—oh, fuck—”

“Shhh, baby.” His hand slides down, pinching your clit between metal fingers, rolling it with practiced precision. You jolt, eyes rolling back, your whole body trembling as your orgasm teases the edges.

“Look at you,” he pants, grinding harder. “All that attitude, draggin’ me in here like you were gonna ruin me. But now? You’re fucked-out already. My pretty baby, my messy girl.”

Your hips buck against him helplessly, chasing more, begging for it without words.

Bucky watches you in the mirror, his own eyes blown black with lust, sweat dripping down his throat. He looks wild—wrecked. And still, his lips curl into a slow, cruel smirk.

“You love this, don’t you?” he taunts, squeezing your throat just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. “Love lettin’ me use you in some filthy restroom like you’re mine to ruin.”

“Yes,” you gasp, tears pricking your eyes. “Fuck, yes—yours—always yours—”

That cracks him.

A guttural groan rips from his chest, his hips snapping harder, faster, relentless. The slap of skin on skin echoes in the small room, mixing with your wetness and your broken cries.

You’re close,so close, but you can’t catch your breath. It’s too much, too good, his cock filling you so deep, his hand on your throat, his fingers grinding your clit like he owns it.

“Bucky—please—I can’t—”

“You can.” His voice is rough, pleading under the dominance, breaking at the seams. “C’mon, sweetheart. Cum for me. Show me. Be my good girl.”

You whimper, your thighs shaking, and that’s when he covers your mouth with his palm.

“Shhh,” he hisses, teeth grazing your ear. “You’re so fuckin’ loud, baby. Gonna get us caught.” His eyes are frantic in the mirror, locked on yours as his hips piston into you. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum on my cock, right here—quiet for me.”

The pressure of his hand, the weight of his cock, the brutal rhythm, it unravels you.

You scream into his palm as your orgasm slams through you, body shuddering, pussy clenching tight around him. Your vision whites out, tears streaming down your cheeks as he fucks you through it, merciless.

“Fuck—yes, that’s it, sweet girl, that’s my girl,” he groans, rutting harder. “Milkin’ my cock so perfect—god, I’m—”

His thrusts stutter, his jaw tight, and then he’s spilling inside you with a broken moan, forehead pressed to your temple, his hand still muffling your cries.

Hot spurts flood you, dripping down your thighs, messy and obscene. He keeps fucking you through it, slow and sloppy, his cock twitching inside your soaked cunt.

When he finally pulls his hand from your mouth, you’re gasping, tears streaking your face, lips swollen.

He kisses your jaw, your temple, your hair, voice trembling with tenderness. “M’sorry, sweetheart. You pull me in—fuck—I can’t stop. You’re too good, too perfect.”

Your chest aches, not from regret but from the overwhelming love that drips from every word, every kiss, every thrust.

You cup his jaw, still panting, forcing him to meet your eyes in the mirror. “Don’t you dare be sorry. You’re mine, Bucky. Always.”

His eyes glisten, his forehead knocking gently against yours. “Yours,” he whispers, raw and reverent. “Always.”

And then he’s kissing you again, filthy and tender, while his cock stays buried deep inside you, unwilling to let go.

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The hallway outside the restroom is bright, much brighter than it felt going in. Fluorescent lights seem to spotlight every inch of your flushed skin, every smudge of your makeup, every trace of Bucky’s hands on you.

You’re a mess.

Your skirt is rumpled from being bunched up. Your hair is wild, lips swollen, cheeks blotchy from tears and exertion. And between your thighs, still slick, still trembling, you can feel him, his release mixed with yours, a constant reminder of what you just did.

And Bucky?

He’s looking like he just won a medal.

His shirt is wrinkled, collar tugged down, hair sticking out of its tie, but the smug curve of his mouth and the soft, almost possessive hand at your waist make him look devastatingly proud. Like he’s parading you, like he’s daring anyone to say something.

You’re wobbling a little, legs weak, trying to keep up with his stride.

He notices, of course. Without a word, his metal arm snakes around your waist tighter, steadying you as if you’re fragile. His fingers squeeze your hip gently, his thumb brushing small circles against your skin through the fabric.

“You okay, doll?” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. “Need me to carry you?”

You glare at him weakly. “Don’t you dare.”

He chuckles, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Could just toss you over my shoulder. Make it look normal.”

You whine softly, burying your face against his arm. “Bucky…”

You’re almost to the food court when it happens.

A girl, early twenties maybe, in a cropped hoodie and ripped jeans, walks past you both. She takes one look at you: your messy hair, your swollen lips, the way Bucky’s holding you like a ragdoll. Her eyes flick to Bucky, towering, smug, hair messy, and back to you.

And then she grins.

“Damn! You go, girl,” she says under her breath, not even slowing down.

Your entire face goes nuclear. “Oh my god,” you whisper, covering your face with your hands. “She knows.”

Bucky’s chest shakes against your shoulder. You feel the rumble of his laugh before you hear it. “She definitely knows.”

You peek out from between your fingers, mortified. “I’m never coming back to this mall again.”

He tilts his head, lips twitching. “Why? I think she’s your new biggest fan.”

You smack his arm weakly, but he just laughs harder, leaning down to press a long, warm kiss to your temple. “C’mere, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “Don’t be shy. You were perfect.”

You mumble something incoherent, hiding your face against his shoulder as you walk.

Bucky only tightens his arm around your waist, guiding you easily through the crowd, his smirk softening into something warmer.

To anyone watching, you probably look like a couple coming from brunch, him protective, you a little dazed, both of you glowing.

Only you two know the truth.

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The elevator dings softly as it glides open, the hum of The Compound buzzing faintly around you.

You should feel tired, shopping bags dangling from Bucky’s hand, your body wrecked from what happened at the mall, but instead you’re giggling breathlessly as Bucky casually hauls you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. His metal arm anchors you in place, while the other hand balances all your bags with insulting ease.

“Bucky!” you squeal, pounding his back with a fist. “Put me down, people are gonna see!”

He just smirks, striding through the lobby like a soldier who’s conquered something. “Let ‘em look, doll. You think I give a damn what they see? Everyone oughta know you’re mine anyway.”

The view upside-down gives you a perfect shot of his ass in those jeans, muscles flexing with every easy step. And instead of being embarrassed, heat blooms between your thighs again. You squirm, pressing your face against his back to hide your wicked little smile.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, half to yourself, “you’re such a slut.”

Bucky actually stumbles for a half-step. “What’d you just say, sweetheart?”

You grin into his back, smug. “Nothin’.”

He huffs a laugh, low and dark, the kind that makes your stomach clench. “You better be careful, baby. Don’t think I won’t put you flat on your back the second we get through that door.”

“Promise?” you tease, your voice honey-sweet.

The growl that leaves his chest vibrates right through you.

By the time he reaches your shared room, your face is flushed, your thighs pressed together, and your heart beating too fast. He sets the bags down in the corner, then tosses you onto the bed like you’re weightless. You bounce, laughing, hair falling into your face, until he leans over you, that wolfish smirk back on his lips.

“Still callin’ me a slut?” he asks, brushing your hair back with his metal fingers.

You answer by tugging him down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck, sucking just hard enough to make him shiver. “Wanna go again,” you whisper against his pulse. “Need you, Buck. Right now.”

His breath catches, and you feel the way his body tightens against you. “Jesus, doll, you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he mutters, already hardening against your thigh.

You just smile wickedly. “Then die a happy man.”

It happens fast, like you’ve both been holding back since the mall.

One second you’re kissing him, the next his big hands are gripping your thighs, hauling you up until your legs wrap around his waist. He slams you against the wall, his lips hot and desperate on yours, tongue claiming your mouth like he hasn’t had you in years.

Your back hits the wall hard enough to make you gasp, but his hand is already around your throat, tilting your face up so you’re forced to look at him. His blue eyes are dark, glassy with hunger.

“Messy little thing,” he growls, grinding his cock against your soaked core through your clothes. “Look at you, begging for more when you can barely stand. Can’t get enough of me, can you, doll?”

You whimper, shaking your head. “No—never enough.”

“Say it,” he demands, voice sharp, grip on your throat tightening just enough to make your pulse hammer.

“Never enough,” you breathe, eyes wide, desperate.

His mouth crashes onto yours again as he thrusts up against you, both of you groaning at the friction. His free hand yanks your panties aside, then his cock, already leaking, is sliding against your folds, not even inside yet, just teasing, smearing slick everywhere.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he mutters, breaking the kiss to press his forehead against yours. “You were wet the whole walk back, weren’t you? My needy little slut.”

“Yes, Bucky,” you whimper, rocking your hips against him. “Please—fuck me, I can’t—”

He doesn’t make you wait. With one rough thrust, he pushes into you, stretching you so perfectly you cry out. He groans at the sound, burying his face in your neck, kissing, biting, panting.

“God—tight little pussy,” he growls. “Grippin’ me like you never wanna let go. Fuck, I can’t—angel, I can’t stop.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he pounds you into the wall, the frame rattling with every thrust. The sound of skin on skin, your breathless moans, and his filthy praise fill the room.

“That’s it, baby,” he pants, his hand sliding down to rub your clit. “Take me. Take all of me. My perfect girl—always so fuckin’ good for me.”

You’re sobbing now, head tipping back against the wall, pleasure coursing through you so sharp you see stars.

When your legs start shaking too hard to stay wrapped around him, Bucky doesn’t even pause. He carries you to the bed, still buried inside you, and drops you down onto the sheets.

You barely have time to gasp before he’s on top of you, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, his thrusts deeper now, sharper, his other hand circling your clit ruthlessly.

“Look at you,” he groans, sweat dripping down his temple, his lips swollen from your kisses. “My sweet girl, my perfect fuckin’ angel—messy and ruined, and still beggin’ for more.”

Your back arches, your cries breaking as the orgasm rips through you, your walls clamping down around him. He gasps, a guttural, broken sound, burying his face against your neck as his thrusts turn erratic.

“Sweetheart—fuck, I’m sorry—can’t hold it,” he groans, spilling inside you, hips jerking helplessly. “You’re pullin’ me in—shit—don’t stop, don’t you fuckin’ stop—”

You’re both a mess, sweat, cum, tears, kisses that taste desperate and needy. And when he finally collapses on top of you, chest heaving, his arms still wrapped around your body like he’ll never let go, you realize the truth:

It doesn’t matter how many times you go at it. You’ll never, ever get enough of him.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

The room is quiet again, save for the two of you catching your breath. The sheets are damp, your thighs sticky, Bucky’s weight still heavy against you.

For a moment, you just lay there, dazed, your chest rising and falling in sync with his. His nose is buried against your neck, stubble scratching you softly, lips brushing against your pulse with every exhale.

Then he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes still glassy and wild, yet when they meet yours, they soften instantly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb gently over your cheek. “You okay, angel?”

You nod, your lips curving into a lazy smile. “Better than okay. I think you ruined me.”

He huffs out a laugh, kissing your nose. “Good. Then we’re even.”

You giggle, and he presses another kiss, your cheek, then your forehead, then your lips, slow and tender this time. Nothing filthy, nothing rushed. Just love.

Bucky finally pushes himself up, grimacing at the mess between you. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned up before you stick to the sheets.”

You groan dramatically, flopping back into the pillow. “Nooo. I live here now.”

“Mm, tempting,” he says, chuckling as he slips out of bed. “But then I’d have to peel you off the mattress in the morning.”

You stick your tongue out at him, but your pout fades when he returns, warm cloth in hand, glass of water in the other. He sets the glass down for you before settling between your legs, his movements careful, almost reverent, as he wipes you clean.

You sigh, watching him in silence for a moment. There’s something about seeing Bucky Barnes, former assassin, world-class soldier, terrifying to everyone but you, gently cleaning you up with that soft furrow in his brow like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

“Stop staring,” he mutters, cheeks pink as he focuses on his task.

“Can’t help it,” you say softly. “You’re just… perfect.”

His hand falters, his blue eyes flicking up to yours, wide and vulnerable. Then he leans forward, cupping your face with his metal hand, cool against your warm skin.

“You’re the perfect one,” he whispers, kissing you so softly it makes your chest ache.

When he’s done, he tucks you back under the covers, slides in beside you, and pulls you into his chest. You snuggle close instantly, your ear pressed against the steady thump of his heart, your leg thrown over his hip.

“You’re clingy,” he teases, running his hand up and down your spine.

“Mmhm,” you hum sleepily, “your fault. You broke me.”

“Guess I’ll just have to take care of you forever, then.”

You peek up at him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “You promise?”

His throat bobs as he presses his lips to your hairline, voice low and raw when he says:

“Yeah, baby. I promise. Forever.”

You fall asleep like that, tangled together, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

And Bucky? He doesn’t sleep for a long time. He just lays there, stroking your back, kissing your hair, and whispering quiet little nothings you’ll never fully hear:

“I love you. God, I love you so much.”

a/n: GOSH!! I HATE HIS SLUTTY ASS AND HIS SLUTTY WATCH AND HIS SLUTTY HANDS!! WHY IS HE ALWAYS SLUTTING AROUND?? SLUT. okay old fic, like from last year, like im talking november of 2025. so that’s why it’s the old theme. its ahh lowkey but i wanted to post something so yall know im alive :p

𓂃 ࣪˖ thea’s taglist: @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @54nboo @bckyslover @herejustforbuckybarnes @umbreoni @devililithh @metal-armed-muse @opheliabbarnes @demiebarnes @barnesandashes @mrgrungusthefrog @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @fucky-barnes82 @barnesgirlx @dolcesaints @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @thegirlwhowaited5everok