she asks him for his body so she’ll be able to study anatomy better
she draws on and labels her blank canvas while he just sits/lies there watching her all heart eyed
maybe every now and again she’ll indulge him (and herself) and leave kisses after every section of muscle ?
she also asks him for help for her physical/health/head-to-toe (i have no idea) assessment (video?) except he’s being a menace and all heart eyed again
maybe he keeps flirting back instead of answering the questions seriously ?
thank you c: 🪿 !!
i took two semesters of anatomy in high school, did too much googling and drank a redbull for this
---------
Bucky is confident you're joking when you bring it up.
“You want—what?”
You don’t even look up from your notes, flipping a page in your anatomy workbook like you didn’t just ask your boyfriend to casually hand over his body. “Your body. For studying. You’re literally the best resource I have.”
He blinks at you from where he’s sprawled across your dorm bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting over his stomach. “Doll,” he drawls, slow and amused, “that’s either the best pickup line I’ve ever heard or the weirdest.”
You finally glance up, unimpressed. “I’m serious. We have a practical next week. I need to memorize muscle groups, landmarks, palpation points… diagrams aren’t cutting it anymore.”
A beat.
Then his mouth curves, soft and a little dangerous. “So you need a… hands-on approach?”
You sigh, already knowing this was a mistake. “If you’re going to be insufferable, I’ll just ask Steve—”
“I’m already taking my shirt off,” he interrupts quickly, sitting up.
You don’t even try to hide the way your eyes track the movement.
Because—God—he’s unfair. Broad shoulders, defined lines, the kind of body that makes your textbook diagrams feel like sad little sketches in comparison. When his shirt hits the floor, you swallow, grip tightening around your pen.
“This strictly educational?” he asks, voice quieter now, watching you watch him.
You nod, a little too fast. “Strictly.”
He doesn’t believe you. You can tell by the way his eyes soften.
“C’mere, doc.”
---
You start with his chest.
“Okay,” you murmur, shifting closer on your knees, notebook abandoned beside you. “Pectoralis major.”
Your fingers hover for a second before making contact—light, careful, like you’re afraid he might break.
He doesn’t.
If anything, he stills.
“Origin,” you continue, more to yourself than him. “Clavicle, sternum… inserts into the humerus…”
You trace the line, mapping it out in your head, then glance up. He’s already looking at you.
Not just looking.
Watching.
Soft. Warm. Completely gone.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothin’,” he says, but his voice is rougher now. “Keep going.”
You narrow your eyes but continue, shifting slightly. “Deltoid.”
Your fingers slide up, outlining the curve of his shoulder. He inhales—barely noticeable, but you feel it under your palm.
“Three heads,” you mumble, focused. “Anterior, lateral, posterior…”
“Say that again,” he murmurs.
You blink. “What?”
“The way you sound when you’re concentrating,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Keep talkin’.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “You’re not supposed to be flirting right now.”
“Can’t help it.”
You roll your eyes, but your hand doesn’t leave him.
“Biceps brachii,” you continue, moving down his arm. “Two heads. Responsible for—”
“Making my girlfriend stare at me like that?”
You smack his arm lightly. “Flexion of the elbow.”
He grins, entirely unrepentant.
You try to stay professional. You really do.
But somewhere between labeling his muscles with a washable marker — carefully writing along the lines of his skin — and the way he watches you like you’ve hung the stars, it gets… harder.
“Hold still,” you mumble, leaning closer to write along his clavicle.
“I am still.”
“You’re breathing.”
“Can’t really help that one, doll.”
You huff, but your lips twitch.
You finish the label, then hesitate.
Just for a second.
And then—because you want to, because you’ve been thinking about it since you started—you lean in and press a soft kiss just beneath the word.
Bucky freezes.
You pull back immediately, pretending to focus on your marker. “Next is—uh—sternum—”
“You kiss all your study materials like that?” he asks quietly.
Your heart stumbles. “Only the important ones.”
There’s a pause.
Then his hand comes up, brushing lightly against your wrist. Not stopping you—just there.
“Keep going,” he says.
So you do.
Every section you label, you follow with a small, absentminded kiss. Shoulder. Arm. Collarbone. Each one softer than the last, like a habit forming right under your own awareness.
By the time you reach his abdomen, your voice has gone a little quieter, your focus slipping.
“Rectus abdominis,” you murmur, tracing the lines, your fingers slower now.
“Yeah?” he whispers.
You nod, then press another kiss just above his navel.
His breath catches this time, obvious.
“Doc,” he says, a warning threaded through warmth.
You blink up at him, suddenly very aware of what you’re doing.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
He shakes his head, hand sliding to the back of your neck, gentle. “Don’t be.”
---
The second part of your studying is supposed to be more structured.
A recorded head-to-toe assessment.
You set your phone up on the desk, press record, and turn back to Bucky—who is now sitting on the edge of your bed, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Okay,” you say, trying to slip back into professionalism. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions.”
“Shoot.”
You take a breath. “State your name and date of birth.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “James Buchanan Barnes. Born March 10th, 1917.”
You pause, blinking. “Wait—seriously?”
He smirks. “Told you I’m a great study resource.”
You shake your head, fighting a smile. “Okay… do you have any current complaints?”
“Yeah.”
Your pen hovers. “Go ahead.”
“My girlfriend keeps touching me and then acting like it’s not affecting me.”
You choke. “That is not a medical complaint.”
“It is to me.”
You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. “Focus.”
“I am focused.”
“Bucky.”
“Sweetheart.”
You glare at him.
He softens instantly, holding up his hands. “Alright, alright. No complaints.”
You nod, regaining your rhythm. “Any pain?”
“Only when you stop kissing me.”
You drop your pen. “I’m turning this in.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
He leans forward, catching your wrist before you can move away, tugging you gently closer.
“You’re cute when you’re serious,” he murmurs.
“You’re impossible when I’m trying to pass,” you shoot back.
“C’mere,” he says again, softer now.
You hesitate—just for a second—before stepping into the space between his knees.
His hands settle at your waist, grounding you.
“You’re gonna ace that exam,” he says, like it’s a fact. “You know this stuff better than anyone.”
You search his face. “Even with you distracting me?”
He smiles, all fondness now. “Especially with me distracting you.”
You huff a quiet laugh, resting your forehead against his.
“Can I finish my assessment?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “But I’m still gonna flirt.”
“Of course you are.”
“And you’re still gonna kiss me after every muscle?”
