40's bucky (he's so cute) and reader, it's just soft fluffy smut (does that make sense)
not necessarily their first time but still feels like it bc back then girls didn't have ANY knowledge about sex ed and boys as well all they knew was about stories and magazines or whatever, so they LEARN together.
And also in this au he doesn't get drafted and they stay together forever and live happily ever after
thats the only au i accept actually!
---------
Bucky always kissed you like he was memorizing something.
Slow, warm, patient—like he was checking each second off in his head, making sure neither of you rushed. Maybe that’s why every time felt like the first, even now, even after months of shy touches and whispered confessions in the dark.
Your parents thought you were quilting at a friend’s house. His thought he was helping Mr. Kowalski carry furniture. Instead, you were both tucked in the narrow bed in his rented room above the tailor shop, a single lamp glowing gold against the peeling wallpaper.
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.”
And he does give you forever. A quiet apartment, shared breakfasts, slow Sunday mornings, his hand always finding yours in the dark.
all sentient beings can be reduced to two lines of code which adds on to the variable happiness_gained through an iterative process while is_dead == False
Q: Kimmerer states that in Native ways of knowing human people are often referred to as “the younger brothers of Creation.” Do you agree that humans can learn from plants and animals? If so, how can we humble ourselves to ‘listen’ to the wisdom of other species?
If we were to strip everything down to the barren nature of existence, humans can and have learnt an incredible amount from plants and animals. It is simply egotistical and absurd to claim that we could have made it without the input and wealth of resources provided by our counterparts on Earth. In the tottering days of our hunter-gatherer ancestors, animals taught them motions of the wind, rotations of the seasons, and how to read the temperaments of the sky. Their tracks might have alerted them of danger, their hunting abilities offering instruction and inspiration, their keen senses and sharp reflexes admired by their duller human companions. Plants might have helped signal the coming of winters and summers, offered shelter and methods of protection, and pointed out myriad ways to healing and medication. We share many of our deeper biological instincts with the refined sensibilities of animals and plants; even as we pompously deny that our advanced civilization is connected to the primal realms, relegating the animal world to an illogical, hostile terrain of unpredictability and savagery, we have come much of the way by learning from them, much like babies learn from their mothers with little more than wide, watching eyes of curiosity and attentiveness. Our science may now far exceed animal instincts, but stripped of our curious instruments and fancy devices, we are barren and hapless as newborn pups thrown into a world in which we have lost the language required to navigate.
We have to humble ourselves by first learning to see that we do not occupy any special, god-favored position in space. Like the Copenhagen cosmology of a vast, unbiased universe, from which everywhere looks the same and all frames of reference are equal, we are but one spot in an infinite map, a link in an incomprehensibly colossal network of life. We are on equal standing as the plants and animals that occupy the same earth as us; in fact, if we were to learn from the creation myths, plants and animals were here long before we stepped foot on the land. Once we cease to see them as servants, subjects, or materials, we may come to realize that these ancient forms of existence are able to offer, while debatably not as “holistic” as empirical science, a rich compendium of knowledge and philosophy. It is one thing to seek knowledge, and another to seek information. We need the facts, which we can obtain from methods we have devised with intelligence and deliberation, but there is also a need to answer our more spiritual side, to listen to the intuition of other life forms that have inhabited the earth for a much longer period of time.
It is true; it takes longer to consider complexity. It is true also that we will never understand the all of the infinite interrelationships. The question of “can we afford the time and effort to try?” is a good question. My only response is: Can we afford not to?
Nora Bateson at norabateson. Practicality In Complexity
