Bucky Barnes Enthusiast

Broad shoulders that block out the lamplight, thick arms corded with muscle even when he’s still, chest warm and solid where it presses against yours. The weight of him should be overwhelming, should pin you down and steal the breath from your lungs, but instead he holds himself just above you, braced on one arm, like he’s afraid to crush something fragile.

You huff a quiet laugh, fingertips brushing the tense line of his jaw. “You know I’m not made of glass, right?”

His eyes flick to yours immediately—blue, bright, just a little too sharp with concern. “I know that,” he murmurs, but his voice dips low, threaded with something that feels almost like nerves. “Just… don’t wanna hurt you.”

It does something warm and aching to your chest.

This man who has survived wars and worse, who could lift you like you weigh nothing at all, is worried about you.

You curl your hand behind his neck, tugging him closer until your foreheads press together. “You won’t,” you promise softly. “You’re not him anymore, Buck.”

There’s a flicker in his expression at that—something shadowed, something old—but it fades quickly when your thumb traces along his cheek. He exhales, long and slow, like he’s letting something go.

“Still,” he says after a moment, quieter now. “Gotta be careful with something this pretty.”

Your stomach flips at the sincerity of it.

You shift beneath him, letting your legs slide around his hips, drawing him down that last inch he’d been holding back. The contact makes him inhale sharply, the sound catching in his throat like he hadn’t expected it, like it hits him every time no matter how many times you’ve done this.

“See?” you whisper, brushing your lips against his. “I’m okay.”

His answering kiss is soft at first. Always soft at first. Like he’s easing into it, testing the edges of you, making sure you’re right there with him. His mouth moves against yours slowlyand you can feel the way his restraint trembles under your hands when you grip his shoulders a little tighter.

It’s not that he doesn’t want more, you can feel it in the way his hips shift, in the low, almost frustrated sound he makes when you deepen the kiss, but he waits. For you.

He always waits.

“Tell me if—” he starts, pulling back just enough to look at you, brows drawn together.

You cut him off with a quiet, breathless laugh, pressing your finger to his lips. “Bucky,” you say gently, “I will.”

He studies your face for another second, searching for something, and whatever he finds must settle him because his shoulders loosen just a fraction.

“Okay,” he breathes.

And then he lets himself go.

Not all at once, but in slow, careful increments. His kisses grow deeper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a quiet kind of hunger he doesn’t try to hide anymore. His hand slides along your side, warm and grounding, fingers splaying over your waist like he needs to feel all of you at once.

Even then, he’s still mindful. His grip never tightens too much, his movements never rush. It’s strength held on a leash, power softened down into something gentle and consuming all at once.

When you shift under him again, guiding him closer, he pauses just enough to look at you.

“Still good?” he asks, voice rough now, edged with something deeper.

You nod, breath catching as he moves, as the closeness becomes something more, something that makes your toes curl and your hands clutch at him instinctively. “Yeah,” you whisper. “More than good.”

That’s all he needs.

He exhales your name like it’s something sacred and finally settles fully against you, careful even in the way he lets his weight rest there, adjusting instinctively until you’re comfortable beneath him. His forehead drops to yours again, his eyes slipping closed for a moment like he’s overwhelmed by the feeling of you.

“God,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You feel—”

He cuts himself off with a soft groan, like he can’t find the words.

You smile, brushing your nose against his. “I get it,” you tease lightly. “I’m incredible.”

That pulls a quiet laugh from him, low and warm, the sound vibrating through his chest where it presses against yours.

“Yeah,” he says, and this time there’s no hesitation at all. “Yeah, you are.”

The rhythm he finds is steady, unhurried, like he’s savoring every second instead of chasing an end. Every movement is measured, his body moving with yours rather than against it. He watches you the whole time, eyes open and intent, like he’s memorizing the way your face changes, the way you react to him.

It makes something inside you melt.

“Buck,” you breathe, fingers tangling in his hair as the tension builds, as your body arches up into his without thinking.

Immediately, his hand slides up your spine, supporting you, grounding you, his touch firm but gentle. “I got you,” he murmurs, voice soft but certain. “I’ve got you, doll. You’re okay.”

There’s no fear in it anymore. No edge of doubt. Just reassurance, steady and warm, like he believes it now as much as you do.

You let yourself fall into it, into him, because you trust him completely.

And he handles that trust like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever been given.

By the time everything slows, by the time your breathing evens out and the room feels quiet again, he’s still hovering over you, still watching you with that same careful attention.

“You alright?” he asks, brushing your hair back from your face.

You laugh softly, reaching up to pull him down into a proper embrace this time, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders. “I’m perfect.”

He relaxes then, his full weight finally settling against you as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“Good,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your skin. “That’s all I want.”

"Două vă rog," he says, picking two plums from the crate and handing them to her along with cash. "Multumesc."

Easy, simple. Mission complete. He makes his way back to his apartment, but the hair on his neck bristles at a flash of white in the alley. He stops and assesses the brick walkway. A tiny mew sounds from behind a dumpster, and he takes a step closer.

Another mew, this time louder. More confident. A white cat with blue eyes is sitting on an empty box of wine.

"Oh," he says. "Hi."

The cat meows and jumps off the box before twisting its way between his legs.

"Umm," he starts, unsure. It could be covered in fleas. He crouches down and takes a closer look. No collar, and the animal looks to be in okay shape. "Are you out here all alone?"

The cat meows again.

"I wish I knew your name," he says. "I wish I knew my own."

The cat begins to purr and nuzzle against his leg again.

"Okay, c'mon. Are you hungry? I think I have some tinned fish."

He picks up the cat cautiously and starts to walk back to his apartment. No one bats an eye as it perches on his shoulder, claiming him.

He inspects the cat for fleas when they get inside, and then gives her a bowl of tuna.