starry eyes forever

The door clicks open, but you don’t really walk inside — you just drift forward like something unmoored, the weight of your gear dragging one shoulder lower than the other. The bag slips from your arm and lands with a dull, exhausted thud somewhere near the wall. You don’t look at it.

You don’t look at anything.

Your boots are still damp from the rain and you don’t bother untying them. The apartment’s dark, except for a low kitchen light humming in the corner. You register the glow, barely, but your mind is miles away — still caught in the briefing room, the blood, the screaming in your comms, the mission that didn’t go right. None of them have, not for days now.

And the worst part? You’re not even angry. You’re numb.

You’re halfway through forcing your fingers to unclasp your vest when you hear footsteps.

Not loud. Just the soft creak of the floorboards behind you. You don’t turn around. You already know who it is.

He doesn’t say your name.

Doesn’t say anything.

He just slips his arms around your waist from behind, warm and solid and steady, and pulls you back into his chest like you belong there.

And maybe you do.

You tense, just for a second — not from fear, but because it’s so much. The contact, the quiet, the feeling of being held after so long of holding everything yourself.

Then you exhale, slow and trembling, and your body starts to sag into his without thinking. His breath is warm against your temple. His voice, barely above a whisper.

“Shh. You’re home now.”

Your hands twitch, useless by your sides. You can’t even lift them to touch him. All you can do is stand there while he holds you, like his arms are the only thing keeping you upright.

He reaches up, fingers brushing the strap of your vest. “Let me.”

You nod, just barely. The weight slides off your shoulder and hits the floor with a thud. He doesn’t flinch.

You feel him shift behind you, and then he turns you in his arms — slow, gentle. Like he’s afraid you might break if he moves too fast.

You look up.

His eyes don’t ask anything. They see.

The bags under your eyes. The tension in your jaw. The way your mouth is pressed into a hard line just to keep the cracks from showing.

“You haven’t slept,” he says softly.

You start to lie — to say I’m fine or it doesn’t matter — but your voice barely rises above a breath before it cracks. So you nod again.

He exhales, slow and steady, like he’s trying to breathe for you.

“Come here.”

He takes your hand, fingers curling gently around yours, and guides you across the room. Not toward the couch, not the shower — straight to the bed.

You don’t even argue. Your legs feel like sandbags.

He lets go only to pull the blankets back. The sheets are still warm from where he was laying earlier. You smell clean cotton, skin, a little sweat — and him. Comfort. Safety. Real things.

You’re not even halfway onto the mattress when his hands are on you again. One sliding under your thigh, the other working the hem of your shirt up, knuckles brushing against your ribs like he already knows every inch of your body.

He does.

“Gonna take care of you,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over your shoulder. “You don’t have to think. Just let go.”

You shiver.

His hands are warm. Slow. Certain.

Fingers hook under your shirt hem again, and this time he waits — eyes searching yours, even though you haven’t said a word. He’s not asking permission. He’s giving you control.

When you don’t stop him, he lifts the fabric up and over your head. You don’t help. You don’t need to. He moves like he’s done this in a dream — smooth, practiced, careful. Like you’re precious.

The shirt’s gone.

Then his hands find your waistband. “Lift for me, sweetheart.”

You do. Barely. But it’s enough.

Your pants slide down, slower than gravity should allow — dragged by his hands, his mouth brushing your hip as he goes. His stubble catches your skin. It burns, just a little. It makes you feel.

Bucky kneels at the edge of the bed, looking up at you like he’s grateful for the view. Like you’re not exhausted and messy and running on fumes. Like you’re the only thing in the world worth touching.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, fingers ghosting over your thigh. “Even like this. Especially like this.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

You don’t trust your voice.

You feel exposed, but not in a bad way. Just raw. Like he’s looking right through your exhaustion and still reaching for you anyway.

He leans in and kisses the soft inside of your knee. Then higher. And higher. Every touch is measured. Not teasing. Not rushed. Just present.

“You been holdin’ it in all week,” he says, lips at your inner thigh now. “Let me take it, baby. Let me do it for you.”

You nod, shaky.

“Need words, sweetheart.”

Your throat feels tight. “Y-Yeah.”

His eyes flick up. “Yeah?”

“Please,” you whisper. “Just… please, Buck.”

He presses one kiss just beside the place you need him most — close enough to make your stomach clench, not quite enough to make you moan.

But his voice?

Low. Rough velvet.

“That’s my girl.”

He drags his hands up your thighs and spreads you open with quiet confidence, like he’s done it a thousand times and still doesn’t take it for granted.

And then—

Warm breath.

Soft lips.

A tongue so slow, so deliberate, it undoes you.

He doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t go for rhythm or performance.

He goes for you.

He listens to every twitch, every quiet gasp. He adjusts to how your hips shift, how your fingers curl in the sheets. He lets you melt under him, unravel inch by inch, until there’s nothing in the world but the way he’s holding your legs, his stubble scraping gently against sensitive skin, the soft sounds of him devouring you like it’s the only thing that matters.

And then he says it.

“Good girl.”

You gasp.

Your body jolts.

He hums low in his throat — satisfied. “That feel good, baby?”

Your answer comes out broken. “Y-Yeah—God—”

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Give it to me. You’re doin’ so good for me. So fuckin’ good.”

You clutch the blanket with both fists, head tipping back. Your whole body’s tight, trembling, nerves burning under skin.

“Don’t fight it,” he says. “Don’t hold it. I got you.”

The praise hits harder than anything else. His voice is steady, grounding, wrapped around you like a tether while your chest heaves and your legs start to shake.

Your voice breaks. “I—Bucky—I love you—”

He groans like it wrecks him.

“I love you too, baby,” he whispers. “Come for me. C’mon. Let go.”

You do.

You fall apart with a sound that feels like relief. It’s not pretty. It’s not poised. It’s messy and real and honest — the kind of release that comes when you didn’t know how much you needed to be touched like this, held like this, praised like this.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not when you twitch.

Not when you gasp.

Not even when you go quiet.

He keeps his mouth on you — slower now, softer — licking through your aftershocks like he’s trying to soothe every nerve.

Your eyes are glassy. Your limbs are limp. Your breathing, finally, starts to slow.

“Good girl,” he whispers again. “So good for me.”

You’re still trembling a little.

Not from cold. Not from fear. Just the kind of trembling that comes after — when your body finally realizes it doesn’t have to hold the line anymore. When you’ve given everything, and someone loved you through it anyway.

You feel his breath first — soft and slow, above your navel. Then the brush of his stubble against your skin as he presses one last kiss just below your bellybutton.

He lingers there for a moment, eyes closed, like he’s grounding himself in you. Like he’s grateful you let him see you like this.

Then he moves.

Slowly, he crawls up your body — warm, heavy, familiar — and you feel your muscles melt one by one under his weight. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just tucks you in with the blankets and slides in beside you, arms already reaching for you like you’re the one who saved him.

He knows.

Knows exactly where you want to be.

He pulls you in gently, until your cheek is pressed against his chest. His arm wraps around your back, and his hand finds your hair, stroking slow through the strands.

There.

That spot.

The place where your breathing always comes easier. The place you’ve called home even before you ever said it out loud.

“You with me?” he murmurs into your hair.

You nod. Your lips brush his chest, just over his heart. You feel it beat steady, deep beneath the scarred skin and vibranium.

“You’re safe,” he says. A whisper. Like a promise. “You’re mine. You did so good, baby.”

You let out a sound — half sigh, half sob — and your hand curls into his shirt like you’ll fall without it.

“I love you,” you murmur, sleep-heavy, the words slurred at the edges.

His fingers keep stroking.

“I love you too, sweetheart. So damn much.”

You don’t say anything else. You can’t. Everything inside you is soft now — undone, unburdened. You press your ear tighter to his chest and let his voice carry you.

“You’re everything,” he says, low and honest. “My strong girl. My heart.”

His lips press to your forehead. Again. And again.

And still, he keeps stroking your hair.

Long after your breathing slows.

Long after your grip on his shirt slackens.

It sounded ridiculous when he said it out loud to himself. He ran warmer than most thanks to the serum that will forever course through his veins, so it physically shouldn’t be an issue. The hottest fire still wouldn’t be able to suppress his shiver when he sees the falling snow each winter, too many dark memories flashing through his mind to count.

Winter. Cold. Death.

Fitting how many saw the bitter season as harsh, calm, and silent when he had been the living embodiment of those elements thanks to Hydra. Harsh and calm in his executions, they made him death incarnate by forever silencing his victims. Unlike the beautiful serenity of a new fallen snow, there was no peace when he completed his missions.

They muzzled him to keep him quiet, but it never silenced the voices in his head.

“Bucky?” You asked as you closed the curtain, blocking the snow from his line of sight. You slowly walked over and took a seat beside him on the sofa when he stayed quiet. “Are you okay?”

He hadn’t realized how wide and distant his eyes were until he blinked the thoughts from his mind. He tried to give you an assuring smile as you patiently waited for him to respond, but it was something akin to a grimace. On one hand, he didn’t want to make a fuss out of nothing and possibly worry you. On the other hand, he didn’t want to pretend everything was okay.

“I don’t know,” he whispered truthfully, clenching his vibranium hand.

It didn’t go unnoticed by you. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He swallowed thickly and exhaled when his heart thudded faster. He had nothing to fear. You were there beside him in the loving home you crafted together with care.

It helped his next breath come easier.

“I just saw the snow out there and…” he trailed off, not wanting to say more as he shook his head.

You nodded as if you knew what his answer would be. It was no wonder you closed the curtain when you said minutes before how pretty it looked outside. “Well then, why don’t we stay in today? I don’t see any reason for us to go out there.”

He shook his head after a moment. “But we’re supposed to go sledding later,” he reminded you.

While you sounded excited to try it, he was torn. He feared flying down a hill would remind him of falling. Would he land in a heap when he reached the bottom, paralyzed as someone dragged him away? Would the snow’s beauty be a calming presence or would red splotches bleed into his vision?

In his heart, he knew you would be there beside him with a smile bright enough to light up the darkness and chase those shadows away.

But the voices of the past drowned out the logic of the present.

You gingerly placed a hand on his cheek and gave him a soft smile as he leaned into your touch with a sense of desperation. It was almost warm enough to rid himself of the chill he produced by lingering for too long on memories best left for another time. If he was once the embodiment of death, you were life.

The spring to my winter.

“No, I think we’re supposed to stay inside today and watch movies under a blanket until it’s time to eat,” you corrected him, as if that was the plan all along.

His forehead creased as he searched your face. “You really don’t want to go out today?”

“I really don’t,” you said, simply scooting closer and grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch. You securely wrapped it around him and rubbed his arms with that same soft smile he loved. “Why would I want to go out there when I have everything I need right here?” You added, brushing your fingers through his hair as he sighed.

His eyes burned, but tears didn’t come. You were the type of person to exude compassion without making him feel like a burden. How was it fair to you that you ended up with a partner like him?

“Are you upset?” He asked in a tiny voice as his eyes flickered to yours, only to be met with compassion.

If you wanted to go sledding or do any sort of activity in the snow, he would find a way to reach down inside himself and push the discomfort aside.

Don’t I owe it to you to try?

“Of course not. My only concern is that you’re okay,” you assured him, bringing your hand back to his cheek. Your touch pushed away the demons inside that tried to rip him apart. “And if that means staying inside, so be it.”

He swallowed again, still not used to someone so understanding offering him a kindness. “I just don’t like the cold. Not anymore. I don’t know if I ever will,” he admitted above a whisper, blinking rapidly as your thumb moved in circles along his skin. “But as funny as it sounds, I don’t mind when you’re cold.”

You tilted your head, curiosity filling your gorgeous eyes. “And why is that?”

“Because I get to keep you close and make you warm again,” he answered, bumping his nose against yours. “It makes me feel like I’m doing something right for a change.”

You put so much energy into taking care of him and he did his best to return it full force.

His eyes slipped shut when you pressed a kiss to his forehead, your lips sending a wave of heat through his head. “You’re doing everything right,” you said against his skin.

He chuckled a bit, wishing that was true. “I’m still a work in progress. Still trying,” he said. He was on his way to believing he was doing things right though thanks to you.

“That’s what counts,” you said, tilting his chin so his lips met yours. “You’re a good man, Bucky Barnes.”

“And you’re an angel for putting up with me,” he teased, covering your mouth with his again before you could argue that you weren’t putting up with him.

As Bucky deepened the kiss, he further believed that you were the spring to his winter. His good fortune. His happiness. Hope for a fresh start and an even better future. And while he may never learn to love the cold again, he would try to look on the bright side of his circumstances that brought him to you.

Because how could one love and appreciate the spring if they didn’t endure the winter?

It was that very thought that finally quieted the voices in his mind.

Bucky deserves only good things, okay? Love and thanks for reading. ❤️