#mutual learning

Bucky lay beside you, propped up on an elbow, brushing his knuckles lightly against your cheek. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, doll,” he murmured, “I’m gonna forget how to breathe.”

You laugh—soft, embarrassed—and his smile turns boyish, proud he made you blush.

Everything was so new. Not forbidden, just… mysterious. Grown-up things people didn’t talk about unless they were being crude in alleyways or whispering behind lockers. You’d only ever seen half a page from a medical pamphlet. He’d seen a magazine once and handed it back so fast he practically threw it. Neither of you had any idea what “proper” was supposed to look like.

But that was the sweet part. You were learning together.

Bucky leans down and kisses you, slower than before. His lips are warm, tasting faintly like mint and the chocolate he stole from the counter downstairs. You kiss him back, shy but certain, your fingers curling in the collar of his white undershirt.

He smiles against your mouth. “C’mere,” he whispers, tugging you a little closer so your legs brush.

Your whole body tingles at the contact. Every time you touched him—really touched him—it sent a flutter through your stomach. Neither of you knew all the mechanics, not really, but you knew how he made you feel, and that was enough.

His hand settles at your waist, thumb sweeping back and forth slowly, like he’s testing to see if you’ll pull away. You don’t. You never do. Being near him feels like standing too close to a fire—warm, dangerous, addictive.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Are you?”

His cheeks go pink. “’M tryin’ to be,” he says with a crooked grin.

You giggle, and he ducks his head into your neck in mock offense, kissing the soft skin there. The feeling sends a spark straight through your core, your breath catching.

His hand moves up your ribcage—not groping, just exploring, careful, reverent. “Tell me if somethin’ feels wrong. Or weird. Or… anything.”

“I will,” you promise.

“And don’t be shy about tellin’ me if it feels good either.” He clears his throat. “Sometimes I worry I’m doin’ it wrong.”

Your heart melts. Big strong Bucky Barnes, scared he’s disappointing you.

You cradle his face in your hands. “Bucky… everything you do feels good.”

He swallows, throat bobbing. Then he kisses you harder—still gentle, but with more certainty. His tongue brushes yours in a way that makes your toes curl, and you can’t help the little whimper that escapes.

His breath stutters. “There it is,” he murmurs, voice low. “God, sweetheart…”

His fingers slip under the hem of your dress, lifting just enough to bare your thighs. You help him, pushing the fabric up, not daring to meet his eyes. But he looks anyway—slowly, with awe, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers.

No one ever said things like that back then. Not out loud. Not to a girl they respected. But Bucky said it like it was the most natural truth in the world.

He slides his hand gently along the inside of your thigh, pausing just before the place you’re practically aching for him to touch. He leans in, breathing softly against your ear.

“Doll… can I?”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Please.”

His fingers brush you, feather-soft over your cotton underwear, and your whole body jolts. Heat floods your cheeks. “Oh—Bucky—”

“That good?” He looks startled, pleased, desperate all at once.

You nod quickly, gripping his arm, letting yourself feel everything.

He moves slowly, circling clumsily, learning your reactions by the way your breath catches, the way your hips tilt toward him. He’s flushed, focused, fascinated.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, “you’re… you’re gettin’ wet.”

You hide your face. “I can’t help it.”

“Hey,” he whispers, lifting your chin gently. “Don’t you be embarrassed. Means you trust me. Means your body likes mine.” He laughs under his breath. “And God knows mine likes you.”

You feel him then—hard against your hip, even through his trousers. You gasp quietly.

He squeezes his eyes shut, almost pained. “Don't look at me like that, or we’re both gonna lose our minds.”

You hesitate, heart pounding. “Bucky… could we… try again? Like last time, but… closer?”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, whatever you want.”

The two of you move together awkwardly but tenderly, him guiding you onto your back, both of you fumbling with buttons and fabric, laughing nervously every time something gets stuck.

When he finally settles above you, bare skin to bare skin, your breath catches in wonder. Every time feels new. Every time feels like the world shifts a little.

He lines himself up with careful hands, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he murmurs.

“You won’t.”

He eases forward—slow, so slow—and you gasp at the stretch, clinging to him. He stills immediately, panic flashing in his eyes.

“Did I—?”

“No,” you breathe. “Just… new.”

He kisses you then, soft and deep, and tries again, moving inch by inch until you’re full, until he’s shaking with the effort of holding still.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, voice cracking, “I think this might be the best thing I’ve ever felt.”

You smile up at him, stroking his hair. “Me too.”

When you finally move together, it's gentle, clumsy, perfect—two people learning, loving, discovering piece by piece what makes the other tremble. His hand in yours, your lips on his shoulder, breaths mixing, hearts racing like two kids in love trying to figure out how to be adults.

And when you fall apart beneath him—quiet, overwhelmed—he follows seconds later, burying his face in your neck so the neighbors won’t hear.

After, he tucks you against his chest, smoothing your hair, kissing your forehead like a vow.

“Doll?”

“Mm?”

“I’m never lettin’ the world take me away from you. Not ever.”

You smile sleepily. “Good. ’Cause I want you forever.”