⧠Hi! Iâm Psyche, and welcome to my blog, ThePsycheWrites.
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going on a date with bucky barnes and it all goes so nicely, so sweetly, so smoothly. you both had so much fun, chemistry and a good time. he's charming, witty and he keeps flirting and complimenting you at every chance he gets. he held your hand all night long, neither of you even noticed it, it just happened naturally, your cheeks hurt from how much you're smiling and both of your hearts are at ease.. that's until the date comes to an end, it's time to pay and you ask him if he wants to go 50/50.
that would be the first time he lets go of your hand that night, it's unintentional just happened out of pure shock. "50... what.." the confusion on his face, you'd think he's an alien seeing earth the first time.
"you know.. 50/50.. we'll split the bill between us"
"split the bill?" he asks and you just nod, he'd blink at you, "50/50.. splitting the bill.. what is this about, i asked you on a date"
now it's your turn to be the alien seeing earth for the first time, "we are on a date, bucky. this is a date"
"no, it's not a date."
"it is a date"
"you're asking me to split the bill, this is not a date"
"oh my god sam was right, you can be such a drama queen." you laugh, he just stares at you, blankly. "it might've been a while since the last time you went on a date so let me break it down for you.. these days, people who go on dates split the bill, they go 50/50" you shrug, "it's normal"
"it's normal? you've done it before?"
you nod, "every date i've been on has been 50/50 yeah"
bucky nearly flips the table. bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on, bucky who used to save up most of his income in an old shoe box underneath his bed so he can take his girl to a nice diner, bucky who went to the florist to get you a bouquet of roses and didn't even ask for the price just handed his credit card because to him your smile is priceless, bucky is about to have a stroke.
"you've never been on a date" he says, face still blank.
"yes i have"
"no you haven't. this is your first date." he says, "i'm your first time." he smirks and you blush at the possible implication. "50/50.." he scoffs under his breath, "what else are you gonna tell me next? i should walk on the inside of the sidewalk? keep my jacket on when you're cold? sleep further from the door? not open doors for you? jesus sweetheart what has the world come to?"
you hide your smile, you love it when he rambles like that, he's so calm yet so offended all at once somehow, it's funny and endearing. "what's wrong with walking on the inside of the sidewalk?" you joke and he rolls his eyes making you laugh, "so.. no 50/50? are you sure?" you ask one last time, hands on your purse on your lap.
he keeps his eyes on you as he pays the bill, glaring playfully, gets up and pulls out your chair before putting his black leather jacket on your shoulders, "no doll," he offers you his hand which you quickly hold, intertwining your fingers with his, and opens the door with his metal hand, "no 50/50."
Summary: Youâve had one mission too many. No sleep, no peace, and barely holding it together. But Bucky sees you â really sees you â and tonight, heâs not going to let the world take one more thing from you. He worships you with his hands, his mouth, and his voice, showing you what it means to let go⊠and rest.
AN đ: Iâve had a week, yâall. Auditors in town at work. Stress through the roof. My Oura ring is basically staging an intervention because I havenât slept in days. So this? This was cathartic. I needed softness. I needed praise. I needed someone like Bucky to gently dismantle me and put me back together with his mouth and kind words.
If youâre tired, frayed, holding it together with caffeine and fumes â I hope this brings you the same relief it gave me. đ
The door clicks open, but you donât really walk inside â 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 donât look at it.
You donât look at anything.
Your boots are still damp from the rain and you donât bother untying them. The apartmentâs dark, except for a low kitchen light humming in the corner. You register the glow, barely, but your mind is miles away â still caught in the briefing room, the blood, the screaming in your comms, the mission that didnât go right. None of them have, not for days now.
And the worst part? Youâre not even angry. Youâre numb.
Youâre 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 donât turn around. You already know who it is.
He doesnât say your name.
Doesnât 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 â not from fear, but because itâs 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.
âShh. Youâre home now.â
Your hands twitch, useless by your sides. You canât 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. âLet me.â
You nod, just barely. The weight slides off your shoulder and hits the floor with a thud. He doesnât flinch.
You feel him shift behind you, and then he turns you in his arms â slow, gentle. Like heâs afraid you might break if he moves too fast.
You look up.
His eyes donât 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.
âYou havenât slept,â he says softly.
You start to lie â to say Iâm fine or it doesnât matter â but your voice barely rises above a breath before it cracks. So you nod again.
He exhales, slow and steady, like heâs trying to breathe for you.
âCome here.â
He takes your hand, fingers curling gently around yours, and guides you across the room. Not toward the couch, not the shower â straight to the bed.
You donât 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 â and him. Comfort. Safety. Real things.
Youâre 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.
âGonna take care of you,â he murmurs, lips ghosting over your shoulder. âYou donât have to think. Just let go.â
You shiver.
His hands are warm. Slow. Certain.
Fingers hook under your shirt hem again, and this time he waits â eyes searching yours, even though you havenât said a word. Heâs not asking permission. Heâs giving you control.
When you donât stop him, he lifts the fabric up and over your head. You donât help. You donât need to. He moves like heâs done this in a dream â smooth, practiced, careful. Like youâre precious.
The shirtâs gone.
Then his hands find your waistband. âLift for me, sweetheart.â
You do. Barely. But itâs enough.
Your pants slide down, slower than gravity should allow â 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 heâs grateful for the view. Like youâre not exhausted and messy and running on fumes. Like youâre the only thing in the world worth touching.
âBeautiful,â he murmurs, fingers ghosting over your thigh. âEven like this. Especially like this.â
You bite the inside of your cheek.
You donât trust your voice.
You feel exposed, but not in a bad way. Just raw. Like heâs 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.
âYou been holdinâ it in all week,â he says, lips at your inner thigh now. âLet me take it, baby. Let me do it for you.â
You nod, shaky.
âNeed words, sweetheart.â
Your throat feels tight. âY-Yeah.â
His eyes flick up. âYeah?â
âPlease,â you whisper. âJust⊠please, Buck.â
He presses one kiss just beside the place you need him most â close enough to make your stomach clench, not quite enough to make you moan.
But his voice?
Low. Rough velvet.
âThatâs my girl.â
He drags his hands up your thighs and spreads you open with quiet confidence, like heâs done it a thousand times and still doesnât take it for granted.
And thenâ
Warm breath.
Soft lips.
A tongue so slow, so deliberate, it undoes you.
He doesnât rush.
He doesnât 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 thereâs nothing in the world but the way heâs holding your legs, his stubble scraping gently against sensitive skin, the soft sounds of him devouring you like itâs the only thing that matters.
And then he says it.
âGood girl.â
You gasp.
Your body jolts.
He hums low in his throat â satisfied. âThat feel good, baby?â
Your answer comes out broken. âY-YeahâGodââ
âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âGive it to me. Youâre doinâ so good for me. So fuckinâ good.â
You clutch the blanket with both fists, head tipping back. Your whole bodyâs tight, trembling, nerves burning under skin.
âDonât fight it,â he says. âDonât hold it. I got you.â
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. âIâBuckyâI love youââ
He groans like it wrecks him.
âI love you too, baby,â he whispers. âCome for me. Câmon. Let go.â
You do.
You fall apart with a sound that feels like relief. Itâs not pretty. Itâs not poised. Itâs messy and real and honest â the kind of release that comes when you didnât know how much you needed to be touched like this, held like this, praised like this.
And he doesnât stop.
Not when you twitch.
Not when you gasp.
Not even when you go quiet.
He keeps his mouth on you â slower now, softer â licking through your aftershocks like heâs trying to soothe every nerve.
Your eyes are glassy. Your limbs are limp. Your breathing, finally, starts to slow.
âGood girl,â he whispers again. âSo good for me.â
Youâre still trembling a little.
Not from cold. Not from fear. Just the kind of trembling that comes after â when your body finally realizes it doesnât have to hold the line anymore. When youâve given everything, and someone loved you through it anyway.
You feel his breath first â 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 heâs grounding himself in you. Like heâs grateful you let him see you like this.
Then he moves.
Slowly, he crawls up your body â warm, heavy, familiar â and you feel your muscles melt one by one under his weight. He doesnât say anything at first. Just tucks you in with the blankets and slides in beside you, arms already reaching for you like youâre 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 youâve called home even before you ever said it out loud.
âYou with me?â 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.
âYouâre safe,â he says. A whisper. Like a promise. âYouâre mine. You did so good, baby.â
You let out a sound â half sigh, half sob â and your hand curls into his shirt like youâll fall without it.
âI love you,â you murmur, sleep-heavy, the words slurred at the edges.
His fingers keep stroking.
âI love you too, sweetheart. So damn much.â
You donât say anything else. You canât. Everything inside you is soft now â undone, unburdened. You press your ear tighter to his chest and let his voice carry you.
âYouâre everything,â he says, low and honest. âMy strong girl. My heart.â
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.
Long after youâve finally â finally â fallen asleep.
sexy knights. sexy wounded knights. sexy wounded weary knights. sexy wounded weary knights in the rain. sexy wounded weary knights in the rain pledging their loyalty to you.
tumblr friendships can be the purest form of friendship bc it's like. hey i like you based on your shitty vibe and concerning ventposts and that weird sex thing we're both into. raw dogging friendship
What if Bucky doesn't want to go outside on a cold day?
Then he doesn't have to, nonnie.
Shiver
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: Bucky isn't a fan of the cold weather. Not anymore.
Word Count: Over 1.1k
Warnings: Slight angst, past trauma, comfort, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: This just screams Addicted to Love Bucky to me because our reader is so good for him. â€ïž Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Bucky Barnes didnât like the cold.
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 shouldnât be an issue. The hottest fire still wouldnât 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.
âBucky?â 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. âAre you okay?â
He hadnât 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 didnât want to make a fuss out of nothing and possibly worry you. On the other hand, he didnât want to pretend everything was okay.
âI donât know,â he whispered truthfully, clenching his vibranium hand.
It didnât go unnoticed by you. âDo you want to talk about it?â
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.
âI just saw the snow out there andâŠâ 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. âWell then, why donât we stay in today? I donât see any reason for us to go out there.â
He shook his head after a moment. âBut weâre supposed to go sledding later,â 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 snowâs 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.
âNo, I think weâre supposed to stay inside today and watch movies under a blanket until itâs time to eat,â you corrected him, as if that was the plan all along.
His forehead creased as he searched your face. âYou really donât want to go out today?â
âI really donât,â 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. âWhy would I want to go out there when I have everything I need right here?â You added, brushing your fingers through his hair as he sighed.
His eyes burned, but tears didnât 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?
âAre you upset?â 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.
Donât I owe it to you to try?
âOf course not. My only concern is that youâre okay,â you assured him, bringing your hand back to his cheek. Your touch pushed away the demons inside that tried to rip him apart. âAnd if that means staying inside, so be it.â
He swallowed again, still not used to someone so understanding offering him a kindness. âI just donât like the cold. Not anymore. I donât know if I ever will,â he admitted above a whisper, blinking rapidly as your thumb moved in circles along his skin. âBut as funny as it sounds, I donât mind when youâre cold.â
You tilted your head, curiosity filling your gorgeous eyes. âAnd why is that?â
âBecause I get to keep you close and make you warm again,â he answered, bumping his nose against yours. âIt makes me feel like Iâm doing something right for a change.â
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. âYouâre doing everything right,â you said against his skin.
He chuckled a bit, wishing that was true. âIâm still a work in progress. Still trying,â he said. He was on his way to believing he was doing things right though thanks to you.
âThatâs what counts,â you said, tilting his chin so his lips met yours. âYouâre a good man, Bucky Barnes.â
âAnd youâre an angel for putting up with me,â he teased, covering your mouth with his again before you could argue that you werenât 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 didnât 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. â€ïž
