purraya - Tumblr blog

purraya · 4 months ago

Note

ohhhhhh oh my lord. this is SO GOOD!!!!! im actually foaming at the mouth rn. had to stop in the middle of reading and just scream aghdhdjksks

just everything abt this is perfect i love it so so so much!!!! 💜💜💜

i absolutely luvvv your big beautiful brain and all the little fics & blurbs you write about rocket thank you :)

i neeedddd to know your thoughts on rocket subbing for his f s/o. i’ve seen him written as dom most of the time (which makes sense) but my brain worms are just craving the thought of him willing to be all vulnerable with his s/o and letting her take care of him like that 💜💜 do you think he would be open to it?

Ahhh! thank you; you are so kind 🥹 i’m so glad you like the silly little stories i put out, it means the world ❤️ wrote this out for u, hope it was worth the wait :)

i will say this is HEAVILY nsfw below the read more. it’s pretty much full-blown smut…and it’s also so much sadder than i meant it to be 😭 ngl i went really heavy on the angst with this, anon.

I don't even have an excuse. i was trying to write smut but my hand slipped and next thing i knew i was writing about his deepest darkest traumas while building up to a hand job :’) this DOES have a happy ending and he DOES have an amazing, guilt-free orgasm by the end of it but uhhh it’s quite sad at first, sorry ✨❤️.

cw: discussions of rocket’s time under the high evolutionary, hurt/comfort + hand jobs in front of a mirror, brief oral sex (M receiving), praise kink, edging, overstimulation, (slightly bratty) sub rocket, light biting (you do the biting lol), pet names. enjoy!

Alright…I am admittedly a sucker for dom Rocket. We all knew this about me.

I think a lot of the reason being on top appeals to him is because he feels in control of something, for once; he’s spent so much of his life desperate for a sense of agency that he can’t help but cling to it where he can.

It’s why he feels so at home in the pilot seat, flanked by stars. It’s why he feels so at home with you beneath him, too; always so pliable and needy and mewling under his touch the way you always do. You, the ship, the sky—his to play with. His to explore. His to keep.

As for whether or not he’d be willing to let you take the lead?

He’s open to it. Or, he wants to be, at least.

…It’s complicated.

Look, Rocket has lived through a million different hardships, but there was one lesson he learned at a young age that he never quite managed to forget, drilled into his skull beside the vibranium bolts and plates and wires: kindness is not a liberty; you are not born deserving of it. It’s something you have to earn—and Rocket, of all fucking people, knows he has not done a single damn thing to earn it.

Praise from the high evolutionary only came when Rocket had proved himself worthy, and they always came with subtle jabs to remind him of his place.

An incredible mind, he would say. If only it weren’t attached to such a wretched, vulgar little beast.

Rocket clung to those compliments anyway, steeped in hatred and bitterness as they were. More than anything, he wanted to be good. To be worthy.

So Rocket solved complex equations, and invented machines people once only dreamed of, and ate out of the high evolutionary’s palm, and debased himself, and did whatever was asked of him—chasing scraps of the closest approximation to love he had ever experienced at the time.

He didn’t even realize that affection was something people could just give out until he experienced it for the first time within the confines of a cell.

There was once a small group of people who cared about him—loved him—and asked for nothing in return. He still remembers it vividly: whispers of affection passed between metal bars, warm words contrasting the cold concrete that dug harshly into the metal screws in his back, shared dreams spoken aloud and dissipating into the air—but he learned quickly that that too, did not come free, and the high evolutionary made sure that Rocket would never forget the cost.

So, Rocket lived on while his friends did not, and unbeknownst to himself, he had made a vital association that day: love, friendship, and vulnerability all came at a price—one that he swore he’d never pay again.

By the time Rocket got out of the Arete and experienced the world in all of its ugly, cynical cruelty, Rocket had learned that it felt so much easier—safer—to hate and be hated by everyone in turn.

Less risk that way.

So, he spent a lot of days burning all of his bridges and being snarly and mean and generally kind of an asshole because, even if no one liked him and everyone ended up leaving him, at least it was his choice.

It had grown comforting even, to hear it said out loud.

You’re vermin. You’re a rat. You’re a real piece of shit, Rocket.

So when Rocket met you, all bright-eyed and sunshiney smiles, there was only one thought in his mind: “The galaxy is gonna eat this poor little brat up alive.”

It felt like a fucking mockery at first, the way your quiet admiration of him grew over time into something too close to adoration as you gave him sweet compliments and shy praise.

He had made sure to be extra cruel to you at first, trying to teach you the shitty little lesson he had beaten into his own mind; to prove to both of you that your affection, just like everyone else's, was conditional.

You held out, despite everything he did to keep him at bay. You still sought him out, and brought him pieces of tech that reminded you of him, and cracked little jokes, and told him about your life, and asked him about his day, and leaned over his shoulder while he worked—despite the fact that he was a dick to you for cycles.

Despite the fact that he really didn’t deserve any of it.

He’d told you as much, one night when you had been extra, painfully kind, showering him in praise even though he really didn’t do anything to earn it.

You had just looked at him funny, and said that there was nothing to earn or to deserve—you liked him and you admired him as he was, barbs and all, and that was that.

It was hard not to gravitate to you, when you said such sweet things for nothing in return. It wasn’t long before the innocent looks and honeyed praises took a turn for the intimate.

Nowadays, your relationship to him is…something Rocket can’t really identify, but it’s softer and more delicate than Rocket is willing to admit out loud.

In fact, the first time you tell him you love him, the words curl up in his gut and crush his chest like someone has dropped a weight on him.

He wants to like it. He does like it.

It’s just that he’s spent so much of his life getting punished every time he let someone get close that hearing you tell him you love him makes him feel like he’s fucking drowning.

Rocket is a man who has spent his whole life fighting to keep his head above water, and now he can’t help but gasp for air even once he’s on shore—and if that isn’t the most pathetic damn thing in the world, he doesn’t know what is.

…The second Rocket opens up to you about his insecurities, you make it your mission to make sure he never has to feel that way again.

The first time he lets you take charge, you have to ease him into it—it had taken cycles before he’d even let you turn on the lights during sex. Every bit of affection you offer him is something you have to approach gently.

One night, while he’s working at his desk, you run your hands along his shoulders and massage the knots out of his back.

Rocket groans, and his tail curls around the back of your calf. “Can’t keep your hands off me, huh?” he says, turning in his chair to try to catch your lips with his, then rolling his eyes when you dip away to leave kisses on the back of his neck. You trail your mouth around into the crook of his neck and start laving at the sensitive skin there, and Rocket hums his approval, tilting his neck to give you space to roam.

You move to his shoulders, and Rocket jolts and barks out a laugh when you give into your urge to gently bite into his bicep.

“Better not dish it out unless you’re willin’ to take it, sweetheart,” he says roughly, swiveling his chair around and reaching out to pull you into his lap.

You catch his hands before he can wrap them around your waist and hold them firmly against the armrests. Rocket raises a brow, but doesn’t resist, despite the fact that he could probably easily overpower you—and then some.

“What? You not gonna let me touch you?” he asks teasingly, letting you kiss at his neck, his jaw, and the sensitive spot at the base of his ears.

“Nope,” you say, grinning into his fur. You let go of his hands to begin unclasping the straps on his jumpsuit.

“Bet I could get you to change your mind,” he says lowly, but straightens when you pull away and level him with a soft look.

“Let me take care of you tonight.”

“…I don’t think I understand what that’s s’posed to mean,” he says, ears drifting downward.

You cup his cheek with your palm. “Do you trust me?”

“...I do.”

“We can stop if there’s something you don’t like,” you say, moving to continue undressing him once more. Rocket doesn’t stop you. “But…I want to make you feel good. I like doing it. Will you let me try?”

Rocket hesitates at first. You can see the trepidation in eyes—the fear—all coated in a thick layer of disgust in himself.

You may not be able to convince him that he’s worth loving tonight, but now, once you have him wrapped up in your arms, seated between your legs while you reach around and stroke his length—you try to come close.

You curl your body around him and use the other hand to tilt his head upward, forcing him to look into the mirror you’d set in front of you.

“I want you to see what I see,” you say, twisting your hand up and down his cock. You look over his shoulder and watch his reflection as his eyes travel from your face to his own, past the scars and metal that embellish his chest, and finally down to your hand, working him diligently toward an orgasm. “So handsome. So sweet to me.”

The look in his eyes is wild—hunted—as he tries to make sense of what you’re saying while the soft palm of your hand eases a steady rhythm over his dick.

You can feel Rocket’s breathing hitch with his back pressed to your chest like this, and he seems almost panicked, bringing his hands down to clutch your thighs while he rocks his hips into your fist. “Huh?” he strains out. “Shut up. What are you—“

“I adore you, Rocket,” you tell him truthfully, kissing the top of his head. “There’s not a single part of you I don’t find beautiful.”

You playfully nibble at the tip of one of his ears, and a bit of precum dribbles from his cock and coats your hand.

You giggle. “And you’re so hard too,” you say with a grin. “Do you like it when I touch you like this?”

Rocket just grunts, gaze locked onto your fist, warm and soft and wrapped around his dick. “Give a girl an inch and she takes a frickin’ a mile.” He hunches his shoulders almost imperceptibly, embarrassed. “What, you gonna make me start begging next, princess?”

You smile and ignore his comment.

“Say it out loud. Tell me you like it,” you say, rubbing the pads of your fingers into the sensitive little spot where his tip meets the length of his cock.

Rocket jerks and wheezes, claws digging into the fat of your thigh. “You’re gonna frickin’ kill me,” he groans. He’s panting now, and his dick twitches against your palm with every stroke.

“Close enough.” You take your hand off of him and bring it below his mouth; Rocket hisses at sudden the lack of contact. More precum spills out from his tip and drips down, soaking into his fur, and he closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath. You nip at his ear again to catch his attention. “Spit,” you command.

Rocket’s eyes shoot open. He balks, eyes moving from your face and then down to your hand. “You’re flarkin’ kidding.”

“You’re my favorite person in the world,” you say dreamily. Rocket scowls, opening his mouth to start arguing with you, but your other hand comes down to trail a finger lightly down a vein on the front of his cock and it makes the words get caught in his throat. His eyes track the movement through the mirror. His dick pulses. “If you play along, I’ll make it worth your while.”

Rockets gaze flickers between you and your hand, ears perked up and tail flickering in a way that tells you he’s definitely blushing under all of that fur…and spits into your palm.

You sigh adoringly and reward him in full, stroking dutifully at his cock while your other hand cups his balls. “You’re so fucking perfect when you’re squirming around like this. Does that feel good, Rocket?” you say encouragingly. Rocket grinds his hips up and matches the pace of your caresses, breath hitching with every pass.

“Good? I feel like I’m gonna frickin’ pass out,” he says with a rough chuckle, still rolling his hips.

You keep going until Rocket is practically hiccuping and twitching underneath you, on the edge of coming—then take your hand away.

“Fuck,” he hisses, cock bobbing and pulsing and wet with saliva and precum. “Why the hell did you stop? Holy shit.”

You do it again, then again, and then one more time after that, bringing him right to the brink and stopping just before he can go over the edge—until his dick is so sensitive that even just tapping on it makes him shudder. And you do tap on it a few times, fascinated by the way he arches his back and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Seriously, princess,” he pleads, voice raw. He bucks his hips into the air, desperate for more friction. “You gotta let me come. Fuck.”

You grin, knowing this is probably the closest you’ll ever get to having him beg.

“I love you,” you tell him, nuzzling your face into his neck.

Rocket stiffens, and a shiver rolls down his spine at your words. His cock aches. “I—what? I don’t—“

“Shh. I love you,” you repeat, wrapping your fist around him once more and pumping him up and down with intent. Rocket moans, hips stuttering in their movement. “Shh. It’s okay. Don’t hold back. Grind up into my hand.”

“I—Fuck. That feels so—“

“There we go. That feels nice, doesn’t it?” you affirm, pressing kisses into his neck while you twist your fingers around the dip right below the head of his cock. “It’s okay; I like it too. I like making you feel good.”

Rocket weeps; his claws scratch at your thighs while he holds on for dear life. He’s still staring at your reflections in the mirror, looking practically fucking narcotized by your steady hand and the way your lips brush against his ears as you whisper sweet nothings to him.

“I love you, you know. I love all of you,” you say again, the saccharine-sweetness of your words contrasting the downright filthy schlick schlick schlick of your hand sliding up and down his cock.

Rocket groans, eyes snapping closed and his face scrunching up with restraint. “Shit. I’m close.”

“Tell me what you need. I’ll give it to you. Whatever you want.”

Rocket is practically fucking your hand in force now, rocking his hips like he can’t control himself—needy.

“Your—Your mouth,” he stutters out.

“Yeah?” You smile into his neck, lips tracing down the line of his shoulder, and bite down again; a bit rougher this time, but not breaking skin.

Rocket’s hips cant upward and the tip of his cock drips with desperation. “Please.”

At that, you slip away from your seat behind him, get on your knees, and take him into your mouth.

He takes a fistful of your hair in his hand and his gaze finally drops from the mirror and onto you, lips wrapped around his cock.

His back arches when he comes, head rolling back and hips stuttering upward. The taste of him, salty and warm, comes spilling into your mouth and you don’t stop bobbing your head and pressing your tongue against him even once the highs of his orgasm have passed.

“What—wh—“ Rocket stammers, vision blurring with tears while you lick at his over-sensitive length. You don’t stop, returning his gaze adoringly while your pink tongue laps devotedly at his cock, then pull away once Rocket taps your shoulder thrice.

He gasps in relief, and you immediately come up and stroke soothingly at his arms, pressing your forehead against his. Rocket’s hands come up to grasp your waist, holding onto you like he might fall through the floor and you’re the only thing grounding him.

“You okay?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “That was…Yeah. That was good.”

Rocket chuckles, pulling you on top of him and falling backward. The two of you rest for a while, soaking in one another’s warmth.

You kiss his nose, and he sighs, melting into your hold. “I love you,” you tell him for the umpteenth time.

You’ll keep repeating it tonight—however many times it takes until he believes it.

Later, once the two of you are cleaned up, wrapped up in eachother, and he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, Rocket whispers a quiet admission into the dark. “…I know, sweetheart.”

#i need this entire thing tattooed on my back rn #im gonna print this out and tape it all over my room walls its so beautiful #rocket raccoon #fic #favs #i need EVERYONE to read this

15 notes · View notes

purraya · 4 months ago

Text

Angstpril 2025

Hi everyone!

It’s that time of year again! We are excited to announce that we are hosting the event again this year!

All prompts, FAQs and rules can be found in the graphics and below the cut!

Prompts:

forgotten

2. chronic pain

3. too little, too late

4. "i trusted you"

5. memory loss

6. holding back tears

7. "it's all my fault"

8. ignored

9. "i don't want your apology"

10. old ghosts

11. if things were different

12. insomnia

13. hiding their pain

14. "i failed you"

15. came back wrong

16. trapped

17. "i did it all for you"

18. truth serum

19. empty

20. fear

21. hopeless

22. sacrifice

23. terrible things

24. "it would have been fine"

25. mistake

26. accident

27. giving everything they've got

28. stolen

29. inevitable

30. "why me?"

Alt Prompts:

"did you even care?"

2. unable to help

3. collapse

4. paralyzed

5. heartache

6. "what have you done?"

7. shaken

8. major injury

9. depression

10. never again

Rules

All posted content must be your original content. The use of AI for creation of any kind is prohibited.

All tags must be utilized in order to be reblogged. NOTE: the mods are human beings, so not all works will automatically be reblogged, even if all tagging is correct.

Any art form is acceptable, including original writing, gif sets and fan art.

FAQs

“Do I have to create for all thirty days?”

- Not at all! Feel free to jump in whenever you’d like. This is a creation event, so create as much or as little as you want! However, if you want to be entered in the shout out post, you must participate in all 30 days.

“Can I post a creation after the day has already passed?”

- Yes! You’re welcome to post for a prompt day even after the date, just be sure to tag with which day and prompt you’ve created for! You will only be eligible for the shoutout post if you complete all 30 days within the month of April.

“What if I don’t understand/like a prompt?”

- We have a list of 10 alt prompts for you to choose from if you don’t like the main 30. Feel free to use our alternate prompts for any day, and if there’s any confusion send us an ask!

548 notes · View notes

purraya · 4 months ago

Text

close call.

BOOK SIX ~ ♡ kiss kiss ♡ BANG BANG [NEW 3/13] navigation | fanfiction masterlist

low-grade spice | gn reader | no use of y/n | oneshot | 2,045 words. read close call now ♡༄.° ✈︎ ₊⭒˚｡⋆ see context & warnings below.

you and rocket are on a mission. a distraction is required.

Supplemental Prompt: A breathy demand: “Kiss me” - and what the other person does to respond. (#3)

“They’re comin’ this way?” he rasps against your throat. His hands collect on your collarbone like it’s the steering yoke of his favorite ship. “Back up, sweetheart—“ You don’t need his urging — you’re already stumbling back into the alleyway shadows, pressing your precious passenger gently into the shadowy bricks with your own body. Maybe the Badoon won’t look this way. And even if they do, maybe it will be too dark for them to see you— But if they do see you — well. You’ll protect the genius-mechanic of the Milano with your own life, if you have to. “Turn around,” he orders in your ear, and you shake your head frantically. You can feel him reaching back — hear the soft snap of him unholstering his laser cannon and expanding it into shape. The heavy cold barrel wedges itself against your shoulder and throat, like he’s using you as a tripod. “Turn around for me, sweetheart. We got a better chance of ‘em not looking twice if they can’t see your face either.” His voice drops into a throaty purr and you can feel his whiskers on the other side of your throat — then the soft velveteen coast of his fur as he rubs his cheek against your vulnerable neck. Your pulse pounds under the faint scrape of his teeth and you feel one foot leave your hip, like he’s half-braced himself against the wall to make room for you to spin. “Turn around and kiss me, doll."

read more on ao3 ♡༄.° ✈︎₊⭒˚｡⋆

♡ kiss kiss ♡ BANG BANG | navigation | fanfiction masterlist

CONTEXT/WARNINGS: mcu with a splash of comics-rocket vibes. suggestive & silly make-out fluff. mild implications of sexual activity. rocket calls you sweetheart a bunch.

kiss divider & support banner by @/saradika-graphics | glitterfall divider by @/bernardsbendystraws | star fairylights by @/thecutestgrotto

#rocket raccoon #my tail is wagging rn #im toooo excited #fic

22 notes · View notes

purraya · 4 months ago

Text

If Only for Tonight Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: Spending your last night alive wrapped up in Rocket isn't a bad way to go, all things considered—if only you could keep your pesky feelings for him at bay.

Or, Rocket takes your virginity, and the two of you do your best to avoid the repercussions.

Word count: 5.7k

Warnings: Light degradation, penetrative sex, rough sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, pet names, loss of virginity, come-play, angst, self-deprecation, low-self esteem, aftercare

Ao3 | Masterlist | If Only for Tonight Index

The first thing you notice is that this bunk is so obviously Rocket’s—shelves and boxes filled with various gadgets that are hopefully not explosive but probably are, walls lined with complex diagrams and blueprints, pieces of equipment gutted and salvaged for parts—the room isn’t necessarily in disarray, but it is very clearly the bunk of a man with a million different projects and not enough time. Despite that, you’re sure he knows exactly where everything is.

The second thing you notice is that it smells like him in here, like fuel and pine sap—much to your delight.

You’re careful not to touch anything as you look around his room. Your eyes are drawn to Rocket’s desk, decorated with sentimental little knick-knacks that he pretends not to like. Most charmingly, the pot that he grew Groot from still sits atop it.

Rocket lightly kicks at some clutter he has laying on the floor—more half-finished weapons and bits of tech that you have trouble wrapping your mind around.

“Sorry,” he says mutedly. “Didn’t clean up. Wasn’t expectin’ guests, obviously.”

“Rocket, I really don’t mind,” you tell him gently. “In fact, I’m very satisfied with my experience thus far. I’ll make sure to leave rave reviews for the next pretty little thing you bring up here.” You give him a cheeky wink.

Rocket snorts but doesn’t respond, clearing away more of his belongings.

Despite his sullen mood, you beam, flattered that he’s fussing so much over you. It makes your heart flutter stubbornly, despite the fact that you’re pretty sure he’s made it clear that he’s not interested in you past a quick lay. Maybe multiple, if you’re lucky.

You leave him to his devices and take a seat on his bed, running your hand along his soft sheets.

Rocket has always been a rather private person. You’ve only been in his room once before this; your memory of it is a little shaky, but it was probably on the first anniversary of the snap. You remember waking up in the middle of the night, afraid and not wanting to be alone. So, you had shown up to his door with a cup of coffee and a flimsy excuse to stay—and he let you. Being in his bunk now feels different than it did that night, though. Maybe it’s the low lighting. Maybe it’s because the circumstances have changed.

Rocket continues to flit around the room, rearranging things that don’t need to be rearranged, back always conveniently turned from you.

“I think the room looks great, Rocket,” you giggle. “I also have a feeling you didn’t bring me in here to watch you clean.”

Rocket jolts like he forgot you were even in there in the first place, and shoots you an apologetic glance. “Sorry. I just…Sorry.”

He thankfully stops messing with his stuff, opting to lean back against his desk instead, but he still keeps looking at you like you might disappear. It’s endearing, but a far cry from the easy confidence with which he guided you earlier.

…He’s obviously stalling.

“Well?” you urge him. “This is the part where you ravish me or whatever, no?”

He chuckles, despite himself. “It could be.” He trails off, looking away. His claws twitch at his sides. “Just wanted to give you the chance to change your mind.”

The corners of your lips tug downward. “Rocket. I told you I wanted this.”

“I know,” he responds gently. A sardonic grin pulls at his mouth. “As crazy as it is, I think I believe you. But I do still think you mighta knocked a couple screws loose at some point,” he teases.

You huff at him, crossing your arms. Rocket laughs at your expense, before looking at you seriously.

“Still. I know the circumstances ain’t exactly ideal.” He scratches self-consciously at his arm and adjusts his stance, tail swishing against his leg as he moves. “I know that if things were different, you’d probably want your first to be with someone else. Someone special, maybe.”

You frown at him. “You are special.”

Rocket looks at you sternly, and curls his lip.

“You can’t just say things like that,” he says sharply.

He looks more closed off now—bruised—though you can’t imagine why. You don’t even know what set him off.

You sigh and stand up, and he eyes you warily as you approach. He’s still so handsome even in the dim light of his bunk, half-dressed, looking equal parts pissed at you and equal parts fucked out. He’s perfect.

You stop in front of him and he assesses you closely, nose twitching and scarlet eyes narrowed; he’s cautious, but not backing away.

You lean down to press a delicate kiss against the top of his head. He stiffens and you feel his fur prickle up against your cheeks. Rocket then exhales a breath you didn’t know he was holding in, slowly bringing his arms up to cradle your waist. You press another set into his cheeks, enjoying the brush of his soft coat against your lips, and he closes his eyes. He unconsciously tilts his head toward your touch as you continue peppering him with kisses. Finally, you bring your head down and kiss his mouth, slow and gentle, dragging your tongue along his canines. Rocket grunts, letting one hand rest at the small of your back, dipping underneath the jacket he loaned you to brush against your bare skin. You luxuriate in the taste of him, the feel of him, and let yourself sink deeper into his lips as his grip tightens around you.

After a moment, you bite down on his lip teasingly, and Rocket pinches your ass in retaliation.

You yelp and pull away, giving him a light swat. He laughs, deep and hearty, and you find yourself giggling along with him. The two of you are still holding onto one another by the time the humor dies down.

You take a chance and throw a heated glance at him, leaning down and letting your lips brush against his ear. It twitches at the touch.

“Would you fuck me if I beg you to?” you ask, soft and sultry. The hands on your waist snag lower, settling on the curve of your ass. You’re still naked other than his jacket, and you wonder if he can see how wet you still are from where he stands, almost pressed against you. If he can’t see it, he can probably feel it, soaking down your thighs—if he dips his hands down just a little further, they’d be covered in your slick. You shiver and lean a little closer to him, the coarse fabric of his clothing rubbing against your nipples.

“Depends on how nicely you ask,” he responds lowly, giving your ass a squeeze.

“I have a feeling it won’t be too hard to convince you,” you taunt. “Worked once already.”

Rocket raises a brow.

“You sound real proud of yourself, baby. So confident in your ability to beg for dick like a fuckin’ whore,” he responds with an air of indifference, even as he unzips your jacket and nips teasingly at the underside of one of your breasts. “But I’m not all that convinced.”

“Please?” you try half-heartedly, enjoying the way his rough hands climb up your waist to palm at your tits.

Rocket looks unimpressed. “Hmm. Not good enough.”

He presses forward, forcing you to back up until your legs hit the edge of his bed. You pull his jacket off and let yourself fall backward with a giggle. “Uh, pretty please?”

Rocket climbs over you, roughly spreading your thighs apart with his knee. There’s a confidence and grace to his movement that makes you flush.

Once he’s settled between your legs, he pretends to yawn, of all things—the bastard.

“You even trying?” he asks, face schooled into a carefully bored expression. The side of his mouth is quirked up like he’s holding back a grin though, and he runs a hand affectionately up your thigh while he waits for your response.

You gasp in mock offense, touching an affronted hand to your chest. “You’re such a bully.”

Rocket narrows his eyes and squeezes the sensitive, ticklish spot right at the dip of your waist. “It’s only ‘cause you’re such a brat,” he drawls.

You squeal, trying to bat his hand away but he dodges with an irritating swiftness. Failing that, you attempt to squirm out of his grip, but Rocket just laughs and holds you still underneath him with a surprising amount of strength. He hardly even struggles.

You always forget how strong he actually is—the athleticism normally reserved for darting through the battlefield or weilding a gun three times his size is now being used to pin you in place.

You give up and pout at him, before letting your face brighten with a self-satisfied grin. Rocket ignores you, hands dipping lower and starting to make their way back down to where you really want him.

“Nice try, but you can’t pretend not to like me anymore,” you sing cheekily. Rocket scowls, and you send him a dazzling smile in return. “You gave away your game. I know you like me.”

You had meant the comment as another offhand joke, and tilt your head in confusion when his hands suddenly pause.

Rocket stops to consider you. There’s a softness to his gaze that you aren’t sure what to make of. It’s intimate, almost adoring in a way that makes you ache.

You must be misreading him—you have to be, but you just can’t think straight when he looks at you like that.

Your heart thumps in your chest.

After a moment, Rocket heaves a dramatic sigh and rolls his eyes, before settling into a gentle smile that’s only a little mean.

“You’re not wrong. There’s a lot I like about you,” he says, placing his hands on the back of your thighs and pressing them against your torso. You yelp, suddenly completely exposed to him. His eyes drop to your cunt and he leers; your clit pulses under his attention.

Rocket lets one hand travel downward, dipping a finger into the wetness of your folds and using your own slick to rub delicious circles into your clit. You jolt and buck your hips into his touch. Rocket rewards your enthusiasm with a soft chuckle and works a steady pressure and rhythm against you with his thumb.

“I like the way you look, naked and shiverin’ under me. And I like the way you get a li’l teary eyed when you come,” he continues, sinking one finger, then two into your sopping cunt. “And I especially like the way your pussy clamps down around my fingers when you’re enjoyin’ yourself.”

“Rocket—ah—please,” you say, canting your hips when his fingers curl inside you. Rocket snickers, his other hand squeezing affectionately at the fat of your thigh.

“I’ve got a feeling you’re gonna be like a frickin’ vice around me once I get you wrapped around my dick,” he says, using his thumb to rub your clit while his fingers pump into your cunt. “You gonna be good? Gonna come on my fingers, princess? Just once?”

You babble incoherently at him, hands clawing into his sheets. “Yes—I’ll be good—I’ll be good.” Your head’s all fuzzy and the only thing you can focus on is the feeling of his hands on you and the sound of his voice.

“I know you will. You’re so damn cute. So sweet to me.” Rocket angles his head to nip at one of your thighs before laying a kiss on it. “I don’t deserve you,” he says, whispering the words softly into your skin, “but I’ll still take whatever you wanna give me.”

Your back arches, your muscles tense, and pleasure ripples through you in waves. You clutch at Rocket’s shoulders and he groans, continuing to kiss at your thigh. He slowly works you through your orgasm until suddenly every part of you is sensitive, too sensitive, to the point where even the feel of your own skin brushing against your nipples where he still holds your legs against your chest almost feels like too much.

He strokes soothingly at your hip, leaning forward to kiss at the space between your breasts and your stomach.

“You okay?” he asks. Your hair sticks to your forehead and he brushes the strands out of your face with a gentle claw.

“Yes,” you wheeze. “Yes. You’re gonna give me more, right?” Rocket tilts his head up at you and cackles.

“You’re so greedy. I like that about you too, you know. Still comin’ off the last orgasm and already beggin’ for more.” There’s mirth in his eyes as he sighs dreamily into your skin.

“Can you blame me?”

Rocket chuckles and lets you relax for a moment. He lays his head on your chest and you close your eyes, taking a second to come down from the afterglow.

You feel it more than you hear it—a soft rumbling from his throat that reverberates into your skin as he melts into you. Is he…purring? You smile wide and opt not to point it out, knowing he’ll probably freak out and strive to never let it happen again, and that’s a tragedy you’ll do anything to prevent.

“You treat me so good. Thank you,” you tell him, running your hand through the fur on his head. One of his ears flutters when your finger accidentally brushes against it.

Rocket smiles into your stomach, then asks, “You ready for me?”

His hand slides down to give your ass a squeeze, and your cunt drips in anticipation.

You nod, and Rocket pulls himself off of you, eyes dark as he reaches for the front of his jumpsuit. You watch eagerly as he pulls his cock out, hard and pulsing. You think you can still see it glisten with some of your own saliva from when you’d lapped your devotion into it in the cockpit. You lick your lips unthinkingly, eyes glued to him.

Rocket spits onto his hand and strokes himself, watching your face carefully.

“Say it out loud, sweetheart. Not doing this unless you’re sure you want this,” he says. “…Unless you’re sure you want me.”

The hesitation in his voice makes your heart wrench.

“Rocket, I want you. I want this. I need it,” you tell him honestly, sitting up to look him in the eyes. Rocket grunts and his rhythm stutters. “I think if you don’t fuck me I might go insane. I’ll do whatever you want—anything—just please—“

He shushes you, and places a hand on your shoulder to push you back down onto the bed. You spread your legs to accommodate him as he kneels between your thighs.

Rocket then spits directly onto your cunt and you gasp. He uses a thumb to spread your folds apart again, watching as his saliva mingles with your slick, and you feel like you’re going to lose your mind—you grab onto one of his forearms as if it’ll ground you, but his proximity only serves to make you feel even dizzier.

You don’t think you’ve wanted anything this bad in your life.

Rocket runs his tip through your folds, indulgently slapping his cock against your cunt once, then twice.

“I’ll go slow, okay? You ready?” he asks.

You nod dopily at him, eyes wide and owlish. Rocket stares at you, not moving.

“Come on. Use your words, sweetheart,” he insists, all kindness and dulcet tones. His hand comes up to rest on your cheek and he swipes his thumb against your skin. You lean into his touch.

“I’m ready. I trust you, Rocket.”

“Alright,” he says huskily, bringing his hand back down to grip at your hip.

Rocket pushes his dick into the wet heat of you, and you jolt at the intrusion. Nothing could have prepared you for how he feels—not your fingers, not his fingers, not even the meager little toys you’ve picked up over the years out of curiosity. He’s so warm and hard inside you. It feels like every curve and line of him is pressed tightly against the spongy walls of your cunt.

It’s a million times better than anything you’ve ever felt and doubly overwhelming.

The stretch of your pussy around him makes you wince, and he whispers sweet reassurances to you, pausing his attempts to work himself in any further. “Shit—Don’t tense up, baby,” he says. “Try to relax. You doin’ okay?”

You feel like you’re being split apart, but with every second that passes, the discomfort gives way to warm, tingling pleasure.

“Yes, I’m okay, Rocket. You can keep going,” you sigh.

Rocket nods, and slowly sinks in deeper until his hips are pressed into yours. His cock is rigid and curved, fitting so sweetly inside you.

I’m so happy, you think deliriously.

Rocket doesn’t move, giving you a moment to adjust. He leans forward to rest his forehead against your chest.

“Hey,” he says roughly, sounding a little wrecked.

“Hey,” you echo.

You can feel him twitching inside you and you reflexively squeeze your cunt. He groans at the pressure, hips jerking involuntarily, face scrunched as he tries to restrain himself.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You take one of his hands in yours and lace your fingers with his, placing a kiss against his wrist before letting go. You then roll your hips against him experimentally. He hisses in response, claws digging into your thigh.

“More than alright. You can move, if you want,” you respond.

Rocket exhales breathily, then starts pumping a slow, gentle rhythm in and out of you. He pulls his hand from your hip to stroke mercifully at your clit all the while. You moan and arch your back off the bed, grinding up into his thumb. The attention to your sensitive clit makes the pleasure of having him rut into you intensify twofold. You feel like you’re floating. Rocket grunts and mouths at whatever parts of you he can reach—your nipples, the valley between your tits, the plane of your stomach, the curve of your waist—and continues to drive his cock into you.

It strikes you how different it feels to be with him. How much safer you feel.

Your past sexual experiences have never gone very far—always ending in disappointment as the other party fumbles awkwardly around in your pants before you ultimately decide you’re too uncomfortable to continue. You had been frustrated at first, worried that something was wrong with you, wondering why you couldn’t trust anyone enough for that level of intimacy—but it’s so easy with Rocket. He moves around your body like you were made for him, like he has every single nook and cranny memorized. He stops to check in on you, asks you what you like. Compliments you; cares for you.

You feel safe with him. Wanted.

Adored.

You buck your hips to meet his thrusts, and Rocket shudders.

“You’re so perfect,” he says. He’s staring down at where his cock disappears into you as he moves, watching the way your pussy grips him as he pulls back out. His shaft glistens where it sinks in and out of you, and every little movement is accompanied by a soft, wet sound. It’s all so obscene, and you find yourself looking away in embarrassment, palms pressed against your cheeks.

He’s quieter than he has been all night, only panting against your skin as he sinks in and out of your cunt, slowly. Gently. He grunts with restraint.

You can tell he’s trying to ease his pace for your benefit.

“You don’t have to be so—ah! So gentle with me,” you say in between moans. At that, Rocket’s eyes widen and he slows his hips to a halt.

His expression of surprise warps—suddenly he’s looking at you darkly, a wicked grin creeping across his face, and you can tell he’s about to get mean.

…You’re in trouble.

“Hmm?” he asks mockingly, throwing a hand up to his ear. You roll your eyes at his theatrics. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, beautiful.”

“…You can be rougher. If, um. If you want,” you mutter begrudgingly.

“Yeah? If I want, huh?” Rocket begins to fuck into you again, not necessarily much faster but certainly much harder. Every thrust is punctuated by the wet slap of your skin against his fur. “Don’t kid yourself, princess—that’s what you want.” Rocket laughs unkindly. “Just fuckin’ look at you. Dripping right down my cock.”

He’s so filthy. Nothing you’ve ever read about in romance novels or watched in any cheesy holovids could have ever prepared you for Rocket—Rocket and his dirty mouth, Rocket and his fingers and his tongue and his cock, Rocket and the way he maneuvers around your body like he owns you.

And isn’t that a nice thought—to belong to him, in whatever capacity he’d allow you to be his.

As if to prove his point, Rocket takes a little bit of the wetness drooling out of your cunt and spreads it across his fingers. He then pops it into his mouth with a satisfied hum.

You flush scarlet, finding yourself unable to look at him directly and shyly put your hands over your eyes. Rocket grins and pulls your arms away from your face.

“Aw. Don’t be embarrassed. I think it’s cute how much you love it,” he coos. “You gonna be a good girl and tell me how much you love it?”

You stubbornly keep your mouth shut, scowling, and Rocket snickers.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it out loud. Your sweet little pussy gives it all away,” he says. He pumps into you a little faster, and your cunt betrays you, squeezing its approval around his cock. “She’s so fuckin’ honest. So needy too. Deserves rewardin’. Seems to me I gotta fuck your cunt rough—the way it’s beggin’ me to.” He grabs your hips and manhandles you deeper onto his length. Your eyes roll back and you squeak. He clicks his tongue, mocking. “So pretty when you’re shy. Even prettier when you’re wrapped around my dick.”

He’s fucking into you with vigor now, claws digging into your skin as his cock carves a path in and out of you.

“Thank you, Rocket—thank you, thank you,” you sob.

“You’ve got the most perfect little pussy, all gorgeous and warm and wet,” he says, working an admiring little pinch into your clit. He rolls the little pearl around between his fingers until you shake. He then pushes his length in as deep as he can go, until his body is pressed into yours, like he’s trying to fuck you right through the mattress. “And so goddamn tight, too. Like you were made to take cock. Isn’t that right?”

“Y-yes, Rocket,” you whine, bringing your hands up to tug at your own nipples. Rocket grunts appreciatively, hooking your legs over his hips and leaning in to kiss and lick and bite at your skin.

“Say it proper,” he mutters against you.

“I was made to take your cock, Rocket. It’s all I wanna do—forever. Want you to fuck me every day of my life.” Your head rolls, knowing he could get you to say whatever he wants at this point.

“You’re so fucking cute. Makes me wanna keep you all to myself,” He groans, peppering licking kisses and bites into your tits. “My gorgeous little slut.”

You giggle mindlessly, happy to be his anything.

“I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m your slut, I’m yours,” you echo.

Rocket’s hips falter in their rhythm and he swears.

“That’s dangerous, sweetheart. You give me all that power and I might actually keep you,” he growls.

“I’m yours,” you insist.

Rocket bucks his hips into you hard, and snarls. He doubles his attention onto your clit, wrenching another orgasm out of you like he’s desperate for it. He grunts at the snug feel of your cunt milking his cock, squeezing and fluttering around him as you ride the waves of your peak.

“There we go. That’s my girl. So pretty,” he croons. He lets you grind yourself up onto his cock and his fingers until you’ve had your fill. “You got another one in you?”

“…nng…Huh?” you mumble, spacy, fucked out, and seeing stars. You tremble under him as he continues his steady pace. Every thrust sends sparks of fire through your nerves, and you whimper. He’s thankfully eased up on your clit, moving to palm a breast in his hand instead.

Rocket observes you, admiring the dazed look in your eyes, and responds with a laugh. “Yyyeah you do. You can for sure give me another. Can’t wait to feel you come on my cock twice.”

The heat of words fall from his mouth and sink straight to your cunt. You didn’t think it was possible for you to cum this many times in one sitting, but Rocket seems eager to rip as many out of you as he can tonight.

“Rocket—“ you gasp when he starts pinching and rolling and rubbing your clit between his dexterous fingers once more.

“It’s okay, sweet thing. I’ll take good care of you.”

Rocket presses your legs against your chest and shifts, planting a foot against the bed. One hand braces itself beside your head, and the other grips possessively at the back of your thigh. The change in position has him suddenly driving into you even deeper and you go lightheaded, twitching around his dick.

Everything feels so hot. Your mind feels numb to everything around you except the way his stuttering breath tickles your skin and the way he skewers you onto his cock. The movement makes your tits bounce with every thrust, and he watches them like a man put under a trance.

His rhythm is almost frantic now, shaky and frenzied, as he uses your pussy to chase his own orgasm. The clawed hand squeezing your thigh turns almost bruising.

“‘m close,” he pants. His cock, veiny and thick, pulses where he pumps into you. “Where do you want me to…?”

You’d give him anything. Anything he wanted. “Inside. Inside—please,” you babble. “I want you to come inside me—pleasepleaseplease—“

Rocket swears lowly, squeezing his eyes shut. The next thrust and accompanying, rough tweak at your clit sends another mind-bending orgasm rushing through you.

The words spill from your lips before you can think any better of them. “I love you,” you cry, clutching onto the forearm beside your head for dear life. Your brain melts and tears spill from your eyes at the pure pleasure of it all—you could die here, fucked stupid onto his cock, and be die happy.

He grunts and stiffens, pumping into you once, then twice, then thrice—fucking thick ropes of his cum into your welcoming cunt. Rocket collapses on top of you, and you both gasp for breath in the dark, skin slick with sweat.

He shudders as he pulls out, a line of his own spend still oozing out from his tip, dripping down onto his balls. He strokes the rest of it out with a sigh, eyes trailing along your cunt, battered and abused, then up to your face. He collects the leftover come on his cock with his fingers, and pushes it inside of your pussy.

You whine, arching your back, overstimulated and incoherent.

“Sorry, sorry,” Rocket says airily. Unconvincingly. “Just hate to let it go to waste when you were beggin’ me so nice.”

He gives your pussy one last, wet kiss, then crashes into bed beside you. He curls himself around you, nuzzling into your skin, and you bury your face into his chest.

You can feel a rumble from deep in his throat again as he purrs beside you. You smile, turning your head to press your ear against him, lulling yourself to sleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

The two of you lay there for a while, basking in the glory of a night well spent. You nearly fall asleep, but after a while the arm you have tucked underneath him gets sore, and the rest of your overtired muscles ache with the desire to reposition.

You shift beside him, trying to sink comfortably into the sheets. Rocket opens his eyes at the movement, looks down at you, and does a double take. He suddenly shoots up into a sitting position. You’re startled out of your half-slumber and you look at him wide-eyed.

“What? What’s the matter?” you ask.

Rocket looks you up and down and his eyes lose their glazed over look. He suddenly seems distraught, as if remembering himself. “Oh, shit. You okay?”

You lay boneless in his sheets.

“Yeah,” you say, giving him a halfhearted thumbs up. “I feel like jelly.”

Everything is sore. But you feel good. Happy.

Rocket winces. “Fuck.“ He pulls his jumpsuit back on and ties the sleeves around his waist, then throws a clean shirt over his head and turns toward the door.

Panic rushes over you. You grab his arm before he can get too far. “You’re leaving me?” you ask, eyes watery.

Rocket looks shocked, and you let go of his arm like it stings you. You try to tamp down the hurt you feel.

You’re being ridiculous. This is what you agreed to. It’s just sex. He doesn’t owe you anything now that he’s helped you with your little ‘problem.’ He promised he wouldn’t let you die a virgin, and he delivered. Nothing more, nothing less.

You’re probably just embarrassing yourself by being so needy. Rocket recovers from his initial surprise and grabs your hand.

“What? No. ‘Course I’m not leaving.” He kisses an apology into your fingertips. You blink back your tears, but try not to get your hopes up. “I’m just gonna get you some water. And some towels. Clothes.” Rocket looks ar you searchingly. “Maybe some blankets. Are you cold?”

“Um. A little? But you don’t really have to worry about me like that.” You cross your arms self-consciously over your chest. The air is suddenly frigid, and you feel…small. “I didn’t mean to freak out. I just—I don’t really know how this works, I guess. I’m not sure if I should, um, go, or…”

Rocket looks stricken, like he’s suddenly remembering that you really haven’t done this before. “Did you wanna go?”

You shake your head. “Not really.”

“Then don’t stress about it, sweetheart. Stay the night. You’re prob’ly tired.” He starts making his way toward the door again, but pauses at the exit. “I’ll be back, okay?”

You smile shakily. “Okay.”

Rocket nods, then walks away.

You lay back in his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking back on the past few hours and cringing at your behavior.

He’d made you come, and you told him you loved him. He probably thinks you’re some desperate, idiot virgin who falls head-first over the first guy to fuck any attention into her—or, well, ex-virgin.

Your heart sinks.

…You don’t know how to tell him you’ve loved him long before tonight. Or when. Maybe there won’t ever be a right time to say it.

You turn over and look toward the porthole in his room, trying to come up with new constellations, hoping maybe the stars will glimmer and give you some answers. They come up lacking.

You sigh, resolute, then peel the frown off your face. No point moping around. You’re still happy, you think. And you can’t really bring yourself to regret tonight either.

Rocket steps back into the room, balancing a blanket, a towel, some clothes, and a cup of water in his arms. You snort at him. He can be so painfully domestic sometimes.

You let him fuss over you and he drags the towel over your skin while you sip on your water. Once or twice he dips it down to clean around your still sensitive pussy, or smooths it over some of the inflamed scratches where he dug his claws in too hard, and you hiss. He mutters an apology to you, and keeps moving until you’re clean and dry.

Part of you wonders if maybe it would be a good idea to talk to him about tonight. About what this all means. But you’re afraid of ruining the moment, so instead, you stay silent. That conversation can wait until tomorrow. Rocket doesn’t say anything either; he just continues to quietly work on getting you comfortable.

By the time you’re clothed, bundled up, and cozy in his bed, he’s still standing awkwardly at your feet, looking a little lost.

“I could, uh. Take the chair or find someplace outside, if you’re not comfortable with me here,” he offers, scratching awkwardly at his neck.

“You want to sleep in the cockpit?”

Rocket looks away. “I can do it if you’re not comfortable with me here,” he repeats.

You pick at your nails. You’re tired of being so confused around him, and decide to be direct about what you want.

“Will you hold me instead?” you ask indulgently. Tonight is a night of final requests, after all. You want to let yourself have this one last fantasy.

Rocket looks almost relieved. “…Yeah, sweetheart. Whatever you want.”

You hold the blankets open for him, and he climbs into bed beside you. You bridge the gap first, laying your head on his chest and wrapping your arms around him.

Rocket tenses, before cautiously bringing an arm around your back to rest at your waist. After a moment, he dips his hand under your shirt, calloused fingers drawing patterns into your skin. You smile.

The moment is bittersweet, but…Honestly?

You’re happy like this. You feel lucky to have been given the chance to be in love with him, even if he doesn’t quite love you back.

…And you wouldn’t give up your friendship with him for anything. That’s what really matters, in the end.

You let yourself relax in his arms, pretending that tomorrow doesn’t exist—that you could live in this moment forever.

You know it’s too good to last. Once day breaks, Terra awaits, and you’ll go back to loving him from a distance—if either of you even live to see tomorrow through.

At least for now, while wrapped up in the comfort of his touch, feather-light and downy-soft, you can dream about a world where you’re his and he’s yours—if only for tonight.

—

Ao3 | Masterlist | If Only for Tonight Index

#YAYYYYYYYY #im so excited #fic #rocket raccoon

47 notes · View notes

purraya · 5 months ago

Text

in the dark.

BOOK FOUR ~ ♡ kiss kiss ♡ BANG BANG [NEW 2/25] navigation | fanfiction masterlist

18+ only MDNI | f!reader | no use of y/n | oneshot | 7,173 words. read in the dark now ♡༄.° ✈︎ ₊⭒˚｡⋆ see warnings below.

you've been trying to catch rocket's attention for ages. he needs a little convincing.

Primary Prompt: One person has to bend down in order to kiss their partner, who is standing on their tip-toes to reach their partner’s. (#48)

Supplemental Prompt: Sneaking away to a hidden corner to share a secretive kiss. (#12)

Supplemental Prompt: Tentative kisses given in the dark. (#44)

“Do you know what I want to do when we’re hanging out late in the cockpit alone?” you ask. Your nerves settle: resigned. You’d wanted to protect those moments — to make sure you could still come back to them as friends, even if he ended up turning down your advances. Now, sacrificing them seems like your only recourse. “Do you know what I think about in those moments?” In the dark, his ears flicker and flatten. He’s right: that you don’t have clear vision up here In the dark. You can still only guess what expressions are flickering across his face. “Kissing you,” you breathe against his whiskers. Do his ruby-cabochon eyes widen? It’s impossible to tell. Still, you sway toward him: closer. Your hands rise up — unbidden — to curl around his long, narrow jaw, and guide it up to yours. “Sometimes more.”

read more on ao3 ♡༄.° ✈︎₊⭒˚｡⋆

♡ kiss kiss ♡ BANG BANG | navigation | fanfiction masterlist

CONTEXT/WARNINGS: mcu-inspired. pining. rocket is clueless. dirty daydreams. reader's being hella brave by taking the initiative with this clueless jackass, but she also second-guesses herself a lot. kissing. fellatio, cockwarming, accidental near-exhibitionism of the "almost-got-caught' variety. praise, use of petnames (especially "doll" and "dollface," love-confessions.

kiss divider & support banner by @/saradika-graphics | glitterfall divider by @/bernardsbendystraws | star fairylights by @/thecutestgrotto

43 notes · View notes

purraya · 7 months ago

Text

Crumbs of Connection

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff.

Summary: When Bucky wanders into a quirky late-night bakery, he doesn’t expect the warmhearted owner to challenge his defenses.

Word Count: About 11.8k.

Bucky dragged his feet along the cracked sidewalk with slumped shoulders, as the chill of the night seeped through his tattered jacket. He was almost at the building he’d moved into a few days ago, but each step felt heavier than the last. The mission that was supposed to be a walk in the park had left him with a pounding headache, a sour mood, and a stomach that wouldn’t stop growling.

That’s when he noticed.

The little bakery on the corner was still open, its warm light spilling onto the dark street. He frowned. What kind of place stayed open this late? Before he could question it further, the smell of fresh bread, herbs and butter hit his senses. His feet carried him inside before his brain caught up.

The bell above the door chimed softly, and he stepped into the warmth. His eyes scanned the counter, landing on a tray of focaccia behind the glass display. Golden, perfectly crisped, dotted with rosemary and sea salt. His stomach twisted with hunger as he stared, almost entranced.

“Um,” a voice broke through his daze, soft but tinged with caution, “if you wait a little, I can fix something for you.”

Bucky blinked and turned toward the counter. The woman standing there wasn’t what he expected at this ungodly hour. She looked alert, not a trace of exhaustion in her bright eyes or the easy way she held herself. Before he could respond, she disappeared through a door behind the counter.

He frowned, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the light above the counter made his headache throb harder. A few moments later, she returned, holding a small paper bag.

“Here,” she said, offering it with a small smile. “It must be hard in this cold.”

Bucky stared at her, the bag, then back at her.

“What?” he rasped, his voice rougher than he intended.

“Don’t be proud now,” she said, firm but not unkind. “Just take it.”

His mouth twitched, halfway to a sarcastic retort, but he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind a basket of bread. Mud-streaked face, greasy and plastered hair. His beard was a week past needing a trim, and his split lip and tattered clothes didn’t help either.

He swallowed hard, suddenly unsure whether to laugh or groan. She thought he was homeless. His mouth opened and closed, and then he muttered, “I’m not a beggar.”

Her expression didn’t change. She just stared at him for a beat, then muttered, “Okay?” like she wasn’t entirely convinced.

Bucky squinted at her, then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve had a bad night,” he said finally, the admission tasting bitter in his mouth.

She quirked a brow, with obvious skepticism.

“Can I just get a focaccia?” he asked, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. He kept his movements slow, hiding his bruised knuckles from her as much as possible. He grimaced as he came up with a crumpled bill and a few coins. He counted them twice, deepening his frown. He must have lost his wallet somewhere during the mission, or maybe it was back at the apartment. Either way, what he had wasn’t enough.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. He glanced at her, unsure of how to explain, but she was already watching him.

Her expression didn’t falter. If anything, her gaze softened, though he noticed the faintest flicker of wariness still in her eyes. “It’s fine,” she said after a moment, with a gentle voice. “Just take it.”

Bucky stiffened. “No, I-”

“You’ll pay me back when you get some money,” she interrupted firmly, waving a hand like it was no big deal. “It’s late, cold, and you’re hungry. It’s not going to hurt me to let one focaccia go.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but the look she gave him shut him up faster than he liked to admit. There was no pity there, just unwavering practicality like she’d already decided and wasn’t about to budge.

“I don’t need charity,” he muttered, the words falling flat even to his own ears.

“Good thing this isn’t charity then,” she shot back, arching a brow. “It’s credit. You can pay it back tomorrow, or the day after, whenever.”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a tight line, his pride warring with the hunger clawing in his stomach. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and reached for the bag.

“Fine,” he said, with a clipped voice. “But I will pay you back.”

“Sure. Okay.” she replied, handing it over with an ease that only frustrated him more.

He didn’t thank her. Not out loud, at least. He just nodded stiffly and made his way to the door, the warm paper bag cradled in his hands like it was the first good thing to happen to him all day.

As the door closed behind him, she sighed softly, shaking her head. The man looked like life had chewed him up and spit him out. Maybe he’d just fallen through the cracks recently, it was always hardest in the beginning, learning to ask for help. She glanced at the counter, absently smoothing her hands over her apron.

If she saw him again, maybe she could mention her friend at the community center. They were always looking to help people find stable footing before things got worse. And for someone like him, someone who clearly still had some pride, maybe it wasn’t too late to get him back on his feet.

The sound of the bell snapped her out of her thoughts.

Two cops strolled in, familiar faces, and she greeted them with a small smile. “The usual?” she asked, already moving to grab a pair of pastries from the display.

As she handled their order with practiced ease, her thoughts kept drifting back to the handsome stranger with the haunted eyes.

------

Bucky shoved open the door to his apartment. The space was dark, empty, and cold, but he barely noticed. He kicked off his boots, shrugging out of his jacket and letting it fall somewhere on the floor. His pants followed, the trail of his discarded clothing leading to the kitchen sink.

He turned on the tap, scrubbing his hands under the warm water and letting out a tired sigh as the grime and blood washed away.

Finally, he opened the bag and pulled out the focaccia, its edges still faintly warm. He bit into it without ceremony, his teeth tearing through the crisp crust and sinking into the soft, herby center.

The groan that escaped him was involuntary.

“Jesus,” he muttered, leaning against the counter. He wasn’t sure if the bread was actually this good or if it was just because he was starving, but it didn’t matter. He tore off another bite, then another, letting the flavors fill the hollow ache in his stomach.

His mind drifted back to the clerk. She had been… unexpected, in a way. Not just because she was there at that hour, but how she’d looked at him, unafraid, and then her gesture, offering him the bread without hesitation, it threw him off. He wasn’t used to kindness without strings attached.

Bucky frowned at the thought, swallowing another bite. He knew he’d acted like an ass, stiff and gruff, but he hadn’t known what else to do. His gaze drifted to the paper bag on the counter, now empty except for a few crumbs. Tomorrow, he’d pay her back. He’d make sure of it.

And maybe while he was there, he could look around properly. He’d been too tired to take it all in, but in the brief glance he’d caught, he’d seen shelves lined with pastries, bread, and other things that looked more tempting than they had any right to be.

It wasn’t just about the food, though. It would be a way to repay her. To even the scales.

Dragging a hand through his hair, Bucky sighed and pushed away from the counter. As he collapsed onto the messy nest of sheets in his living room, his last thought was of the clerk: her calm voice and the smile she’d given him as she handed over the bag.

---

The next morning, Bucky stood under the hot shower spray, letting the water beat against his sore muscles. He scrubbed the grime of the previous day away, trying to clear his head. Afterward, he brewed a cup of coffee, jolting his brain into something resembling alertness.

Setting the empty mug in the sink, he began hunting for his wallet. He turned over the few possessions he had in his apartment, muttering curses under his breath, but it was nowhere to be found.

“Great,” he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair.

Reluctantly, he went to the stash of cash he kept hidden under a loose floorboard. Pulling out a few bills, he tucked them into his pocket and took a quick look in the mirror. His split lip was still healing, but his beard was trimmed now, and the dark circles under his eyes were a little less pronounced. Also, his clothes didn’t look like they were dragged against a concrete road. Good enough.

The walk to the bakery was brisk, the chill of the morning sharp but not unpleasant. He felt more like himself than he had the night before, ready to repay the debt and maybe even buy something else.

But as he approached the corner, his steps faltered.

The bakery was closed.

He frowned, sweeping his gaze over the dark windows and drawn curtains. The sign on the door mocked him with its clear Closed lettering.

What kind of bakery was closed at 10 a.m.?

His mind immediately jumped to worst-case scenarios. Maybe something had happened. Maybe the clerk stayed too late and ran into trouble on her way home. His jaw tightened as he peeked through the curtains, searching for any sign of movement inside.

But then his eyes landed on the sign taped to the door:

Open: 4 p.m. - 12 a.m.

Bucky blinked.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, straightening.

What kind of bakery worked on a schedule like that? Who baked bread for the night shift? He rubbed his jaw, baffled, and glanced at the darkened windows again.

With a shake of his head, he turned back the way he came, the mystery of the night-shift bakery simmering in his thoughts.

---

The day passed in the kind of monotony Bucky had learned to tolerate. Cleaning his gear, half-watching a soccer game, biting back the urge to snap at Dr. Raynor during their session, and ignoring Sam’s persistent calls. By the time evening rolled around, he was restless enough to head out again.

Around 9 p.m., he set off to the bakery, the mystery of its late hours still nagging at him. Who needed baked goods at this time of night? Well, besides himself. Sleep was always a gamble, if he was lucky, he’d be out by 2 a.m., though that was probably wishful thinking.

As he rounded the corner, he spotted movement by the shop. Three bikers, with leather jackets patched with gang insignias, stepped out of the door, each carrying large paper bags stuffed with… something. Bucky couldn’t make out what was inside, but they seemed satisfied, securing the bags to their saddlebags before waving toward the bakery window. His brow furrowed as he slowed his pace. The clerk waved back before she turned and disappeared behind the counter.

The bikers mounted their bikes and roared off into the night, leaving Bucky to stare after them for a moment. He quirked a brow. Well, it seemed the place had its regulars.

Pushing open the door, the soft chime of the bell announced his arrival. The warmth hit him immediately, carrying with it the now-familiar scent of herbs and fresh bread.

She was at the counter again, arranging some pastries on a tray. The sound of the bell made her look up, and her movements stilled when she saw him. It wasn’t much, just a flicker of hesitation, but he caught it. Then, like flipping a switch, she composed herself, her face smoothing into a polite smile.

“Hi,” she greeted him, he thought he caught a hint of surprise beneath it.

“Hey,” Bucky replied, almost gruffly. He stepped forward, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

For a brief moment, silence hung between them as their eyes met. Neither spoke, just staring at each other, the air charged with an odd sense of recognition. Then she blinked, snapping herself out of the trance, mentally slapping herself.

“Hi,” she said again, her voice a little higher this time, followed by a flustered, “What can I do for you?”

Bucky shifted slightly, pulling one hand from his pocket and holding out a few bills. “I came to pay you for the focaccia,” he said simply. “And… I wanted to buy some other things too.”

Her brows lifted, and she laughed softly, taking the money from him. “That was fast. I wasn’t going to charge you interest, you know,” she chuckled.

“Appreciate it,” he muttered, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

“So,” she said, her professional demeanor slipping back into place, “what can I get you?”

As he scanned the shelves and pointed to a few items, she efficiently began sorting them into paper bags. But he noticed her hands slowing now and then, her lips pressed together like she was working through something. Finally, she turned toward him, bag in hand, and blurted, “I’m sorry.”

Bucky frowned, tilting his head slightly. “For what?”

“For assuming…” She gestured vaguely toward him, her expression tinged with embarrassment.

He blinked, then let out a low chuckle. “Well, I looked like shit,” he said bluntly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk. “Can’t blame you.”

Her shoulders eased at his reaction, and she gave him a small, relieved smile. “Thank you for… you know,” he added, signaling vaguely toward the counter where the focaccias where exhibited.

“Don’t mention it,” she replied and then extended a hand, “I’m Y/n, by the way.”

“Bucky,” he said, his vibranium hand staying tucked in his pocket as he shook her hand briefly with the other one.

As she returned to filling the bags, he couldn’t stop himself. He leaned slightly against the counter, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.

“So,” he said, breaking the quiet, “what’s up with the hours here? Four to twelve?”

Her head popped up, a faint look of surprise crossing her face before she laughed softly. “Oh, that.” She handed him the filled bags, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” he replied in a casual tone, though his gaze made clear that he actually wanted to know.

“This bakery… my grandparents opened it in the ’60s,” she began. “When my gramps passed in the early 2000s, my granny made some changes. One of them was the schedule.”

Bucky tilted his head, his curiosity sharpening. “The late hours?”

She nodded, leaning lightly against the counter. “Yeah. There’s a lot of nightlife in this neighborhood and a surprising number of residents work night or late shifts. She figured people needed somewhere to grab a decent meal at odd hours. It was risky, but eventually, it worked out.”

He let the idea sink in, flicking , his gaze briefly to the trays of baked goods. It made sense, in a way.

“When she passed the shop to me,” she continued, with a voice tinged with fondness, “I decided to keep things just the way they were. It feels right, you know? Like I’m keeping her legacy alive.”

She shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. “Besides, I don’t get sleepy at night, anyway. I’ve always been more of a night owl. I end up sleeping all morning, so the schedule works for me.”

Bucky studied her for a moment, taking in the mix of pride and nostalgia in her expression. She seemed connected to the place in a way that made the odd schedule seem less strange and more… fitting.

“That’s… different,” he said finally, his voice softer than usual.

“Different good or different bad?” she asked, quirking a brow as she crossed her arms.

He smirked, shaking his head. “Just different.”

But he couldn’t leave it there. The question burned in his mind, and he found himself asking, “Don’t you think it’s dangerous being open this late? Alone?”

She tilted her head, not missing a beat. “I’m not alone. Liam, the main baker, is in the kitchen.”

Bucky gave her a pointed look, one brow lifting in a way that clearly said, Seriously?

“And if someone armed gets in here, he’d chase them off with a spatula?”

She laughed softly, but there was a flicker of something thoughtful in her eyes. “We’ve had our share of… episodes,” she admitted, “but it’s been a long time since the last one.” She gestured toward a small table near the counter with a nod of her head. “The cops come by all the time to grab something or even sit and eat.”

“That’s not exactly foolproof,” Bucky muttered, unconvinced.

Her lips curved into a wry smile, and she leaned in a little, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “Let’s just say having the local bikers as regulars doesn’t hurt either.”

He blinked, frowning. “The guys I saw earlier? So they… behave?”

“They’re good guys,” she retorted, then paused and corrected herself with a grin. “They’re nice guys. Most of the time.”

Bucky raised a skeptical brow, and she continued, “Sometimes they even help out. Like last week, when the mixer broke. They swung by after their ride and got it working again. One of them’s pretty handy with tools.”

Bucky’s frown deepened, though this time it wasn’t out of suspicion. He wasn’t sure whether to find the whole setup amusing or… concerning.

“Guess that’s one way to stay safe,” he muttered, glancing around the shop like it might reveal more secrets.

“It works,” she said shrugging. “Besides, most people aren’t looking for trouble when they’re hungry.”

He let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head. Then he picked up the bags and nodded at her, and she offered him a small smile, “Come again.”

He paused at the door, glancing back at her. “I will.”

With that, he was gone, the door chime softly announcing his exit. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, leaning against the counter for a moment. Her gaze lingered on the door, her mind replaying the way his broad frame looked in those casual clothes. Effortless, like he didn’t have to try at all to look that good.

The thought was interrupted by the sound of the door chime again. She straightened quickly, spotting two guys in uniforms marked with the local electricity company’s logo.

“Hey,” one of them called, grinning. “Got any donuts left?”

---

Time passed, and Bucky started showing up regularly, his visits becoming a constant in her evenings. Three days a week, like clockwork, the bell would chime, and there he’d be, gloved hands tucked into his jacket pockets and that quiet, brooding air about him.

What surprised her most wasn’t the frequency of his visits but how much he bought each time. He’d point out loaves, pastries, and cookies, practically cleaning out half the display case on some nights. At first, she thought it was just politeness, a way to make up for that first night. But as the weeks went on, it became clear that this was just his thing.

One evening, as she packed his usual haul into bags, curiosity finally got the better of her and she glanced up at him with a smile. “Wow, your family must really enjoy our goods,” she said playfully.

The comment made him pause. His smile faltered, just for a second, and his eyes flicked away like he was retreating inward.

She noticed the shift immediately and quickly tried to smooth things over. “Oh,” she said with a laugh, waving a hand, “great appetite then. I won’t complain about that.”

His gaze returned to her, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Something like that,” he murmured.

She handed him the bags, softening her smile. Whatever that moment had been, she wasn’t going to push. “Well, you’re keeping me in business, so thank you.”

He nodded, a quiet “thanks” leaving his lips before he turned to leave.

---

As Bucky walked the short distance back to his apartment, the bags swinging lightly in his grip, his mind churned with thoughts he couldn’t quite shake. Her comment replayed in his head: Your family must really enjoy our goods.

Family.

His jaw clenched slightly. He didn’t have one, not anymore. The people he cared about… well, they were scattered or gone, and the thought of sitting at a table surrounded by warmth and laughter felt more like a faded memory than a reality.

He adjusted his grip on the bags, slowing his steps as he reached his building. It wasn’t her fault, of course. She hadn’t meant anything by it, just an innocent assumption. And she’d recovered quickly, giving him an out he appreciated more than he could express.

Still, the weight of the moment stuck with him. The way her words had scratched at something raw and unhealed, something he thought he’d buried deep enough that it couldn’t sting anymore.

In the quiet of his apartment, he set the bags on the counter and shrugged off his jacket. He pulled out one of the pastries she’d packed for him, a warm smell of cinnamon and sugar wafting up as he took a bite. The sweetness melted on his tongue, giving him a fleeting comfort.

She was kind. That much was clear. Her warmth wasn’t forced or rehearsed; it was just… there. Bucky leaned against the counter, staring at the pastry in his hand like it might hold some answers. He hadn’t meant to make her uncomfortable, but his reaction had been automatic, a wall thrown up before he could even think about it.

He couldn’t deny that he liked going to the bakery, liked seeing her. He finished the pastry and sighed, glancing at the bags of baked goods. He’d go back, of course. It was becoming part of his routine, and he found himself looking forward to the short conversations, the moments of normalcy she unknowingly offered him.

He just needed to keep things simple. Keep the walls up.

----

Keep things simple, Bucky had told himself more times than he could count, the mantra almost automatic by now. But as he stood at the counter that Wednesday night, watching her nervously wring her hands, he felt a crack in his resolve.

“Can I ask you a question?” she began, a little hesitant. “It’s alright if you don’t want to answer, but…”

He tensed. His gloved hand rested on the counter, fingers curling slightly. “Go ahead.”

“This weekend, I went to the Smithsonian with a friend…”

And there it was. This is it.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he interrupted, with a sharper tone than he intended. He wanted to rip the band-aid off, and get it over with. He braced himself for the shift, the awkward laugh, the strained smile, the clipped words. The gradual squirming in his presence like he carried a weight they couldn’t bear to be near.

But instead, she grinned.

“Well, that explains your appearance the day I met you,” she said lightly, a teasing lilt in her voice. “And your appetite.” She winked.

Bucky blinked. That wasn’t the reaction he’d prepared for.

Before he could respond, she continued. “It’s not my place to say, but… you’ve had it hard, Bucky. I saw the look on your face when I brought this up, so let me be clear: this changes nothing.” She leaned forward slightly, meeting his eyes. “I know it could be hard sometimes, with the people… but not in here.”

Bucky stared at her, the usual quick retorts or excuses dying on his tongue. He didn’t know what to say. The sincerity in her voice and the calmness in the way she addressed the subject without making him feel exposed, caught him off guard.

“Thanks,” he finally said, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

She nodded, curving her lips into a small smile, but instead of leaving it at that, she hesitated. “That being said…” Her voice softened. “According to the commemorative plate, your birthday was last week.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed. He hadn’t even remembered.

“So,” she said, bending down behind the counter, “here.” When she straightened up, she held a small plum tart, dusted with powdered sugar. “I couldn’t put all the candles on it for obvious reasons.” She chuckled softly as she gave him the little tray.

Bucky froze. The gesture hit him square in the chest, a pang so sharp and unexpected it made his breath hitch. He stared at the tart, feeling an ache rise in his throat. His lips trembled traitorously as he fought back the overwhelming surge of emotion.

She noticed his hesitation and tilted her head slightly. “It’s just a tart,” she said gently as if trying to assure him it was no big deal.

But to him, it was.

He reached out, taking the tart from her as if it were made of glass. His gloved fingers brushed the edge of the plate and he swallowed hard. His voice, barely above a whisper, cracked as he said, “Thank you.”

Bucky didn’t trust himself to look at her. He stared down at the pastry, his grip tightening around the edges of the plate as he worked to steady his breathing. It had been so long since anyone had done something this thoughtful for him, that he didn’t know how to react.

Watching his reaction, she faltered. Her earlier confidence dimmed as doubt crept into her expression. She fidgeted with her apron, glancing away briefly before blurting out, “I, um… sorry for bothering you. If I overstepped-”

“No.” The word came out sharper than he meant, and she froze. He took a breath, forcing his voice to steady. “You didn’t,” he said again, gentler this time. “You just surprised me here, doll, that’s all.”

Her gaze softened, searching his face, and he didn’t look away this time. His walls weren’t fully down -when were they ever?- but the rawness in his eyes couldn’t be hidden, the unshed tears glimmering with the lights.

Her lips parted, then closed again, like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if it was her place. She shifted her weight, her fingers lightly tapping the counter. “It’s not much,” she said after a beat, her tone quiet but sincere. “Just a little thing I thought might make you smile.”

“It’s more than you know,” Bucky murmured then he cleared his throat and adjusted the bags in his hand, needing something to focus on besides the growing ache in his chest. “I, uh… I appreciate it,” he said, a little awkwardly.

Her smile grew, and she reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Good,” she said simply. “You deserve something nice.”

That threw him off even more. He stared at her, stunned by the ease with which she said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

His throat tightened, and he looked away, unable to meet her gaze any longer. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice gravelly as he turned toward the door.

“Bucky?”

He stopped, glancing back over his shoulder.

“I just remembered that I didn’t tell you, Happy birthday,”

He nodded once, gripping the bags a little tighter as he pushed the door open and stepped into the cool night air, which did little to clear the fog in his head.

You deserve something nice. He almost scoffed aloud. Nice? Someone like him? Someone who couldn’t go a single day without being haunted by the weight of his past?

The world had a funny way of reminding him where he stood. Steve was gone. The man who believed in him more than anyone else had handed over the shield, and with it, Bucky felt like the last tether to the person he used to be had been severed. Now, it was just him. And no matter how hard he tried to fix things, make amends, or find a shred of normalcy, the past always had its claws in him.

But tonight, she had looked at him and seen something other than the broken pieces. She hadn’t flinched when she figured out who he was. She hadn’t spat accusations or looked at him with the fear or pity he was used to. Instead, she smiled and handed him a damn tart for his birthday, a day he hadn’t even remembered until she brought it up.

Maybe… He shook his head as he walked, his boots crunching hard against the pavement. Don’t get attached.

Still, he glanced down at the tart again, its delicate powdered sugar glinting under the streetlights and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, almost involuntarily.

----

One rainy night, Bucky was already imagining the taste of a prune cupcake when he reached the bakery and found the door closed.

His brows furrowed as he noted the light spilling from the kitchen and the neatly arranged merchandise still on display. That was odd. He stepped closer, intending to knock on the glass, but hesitated. If she had closed up, there must’ve been a reason. Why would she open just for him?

He turned to leave, but the sound of a long, creative string of curses froze him mid-step. His frown deepened. Maybe she was arguing with Liam or a boyfriend, or... why was he still standing there?

Then came a sharp scream of pain.

Before his mind could process, his body moved on its own. He pushed the wooden door open with a single fluid motion of his vibranium hand and rushed toward the kitchen, ready to confront whoever was causing her harm.

He wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him.

She was alone. Entirely alone.

Barefoot, her jeans rolled at the cuffs, and wearing nothing but a lacy black bra on top. She was gripping one foot and hopping in place, her other hand clutching the edge of the counter for balance. Her face was scrunched in pain, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple.

She froze as he appeared in the doorway, locking her wide eyes onto his.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

“Bucky?!” she finally exclaimed, her voice was a mix of mortification and disbelief. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“I heard you scream,” he said, still on high alert. “I thought- I mean, I thought someone was-”

Well, someone isn’t!” she snapped, waving her arms for emphasis before wincing and clutching her foot again. “What are you… how did you even…”

“The door wasn’t locked,” he said simply, lifting his vibranium hand as if that explained everything.

She stared at him. “You broke my door, didn’t you?”

“Technically, I opened it.”

Her shoulders slumped as she let out a groan.

“What happened?” he asked, softening his tone as he noted the red welt forming on her foot.

She gestured toward a hulking machine in the corner, a sour expression on her face. “The kneading machine broke,” she grumbled. “It’s Liam’s day off, so I have to knead all the dough by hand. I got frustrated and kicked the stupid thing.” She pointed to the offending piece of equipment as though it were an enemy in battle.

Bucky’s lips twitched, but he quickly schooled his expression. “And it fought back?”

Her glare could’ve melted steel, but then her expression shifted, and she seemed to remember her current state of undress. Quickly, she crossed her arms over her chest, though the movement only served to push her curves together.

Bucky’s jaw tightened as he fought to keep his gaze locked firmly on her face. He swallowed hard, feeling the distinct burn of self-restraint in every muscle.

“Can you throw me that shirt?” she asked, jerking her chin toward a crumpled white button-up draped over a stool.

“Sure,” he muttered, grabbing it and tossing it her way.

“Turn around?” she added pointedly, feeling her cheeks going warm.

He obeyed instantly, facing the wall and rubbing the back of his neck. “Why, uh… why were you like that anyway?” he asked, his voice low and awkward.

“It’s hot,” she replied, a little grumpy. “The kitchen’s like an oven with all the equipment running, and kneading all that dough by hand isn’t exactly cooling me off. Plus, I was alone. Or so I thought.”

“Right,” Bucky murmured, feeling a little ridiculous for barging in like that. He’d been ready to throw down with some imaginary attacker, and instead, he’d walked in on… well, on a very memorable scene.

The mental image of her, half naked and glistening, burned behind his eyelids, and he clenched his fists at his sides. He didn’t need his mind going there, not now, not ever.

The sound of her shifting behind him broke his thoughts. “Okay, decent,” she said.

He turned back around, carefully keeping his expression neutral. She was now buttoning up the shirt, but her hair was still mussed. He cleared his throat.

“Want me to help kneading?” he blurted out, the words escaping before he could think them through.

She froze mid-button, blinking at him. “You want to… knead dough?”

“Let’s just say I can put that piece of junk to shame,” he said, nodding toward the broken machine. “Only… you have to teach me how. Then I’ll do it. It’s not a big deal.”

Her lips parted as if to protest, but she hesitated, seemingly caught off guard. After a moment, she shook her head. “That’s sweet, but I can’t ask you to do that. It’ll take a lot of time.”

“I have time,” Bucky replied evenly. He didn’t add that the alternative was staring at the ceiling of his living room, trying to fend off the ghosts in his head and praying for a few nightmare-free hours.

She looked at him, clearly debating, catching her bottom lip between her teeth in a way that momentarily distracted him.

“Plus,” he added with a faint shrug, “I won’t raise your electric bill, and I won’t get tired.”

A soft laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Finally, she exhaled and nodded. “Alright, if you’re sure. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, this is serious manual labor.”

“I’ve handled worse,” he said with a small smirk, rolling up his sleeves.

“Okay, tough guy,” she replied, her tone half-teasing as she gestured toward the counter. “Let’s see if you can handle my kitchen.”

He stepped up beside her, and as she began to explain the technique, Bucky couldn’t help but notice how the frustration in her features softened, replaced by something almost playful. It wasn’t often he felt useful outside of a mission or a fight, but in this warm, flour-dusted bakery, it felt like he could do something… normal.

Lost in thought, he didn’t notice her watching him. When he did, he realized she was waiting for a response.

“Uh…” he mumbled. It seemed she had been talking and he didn’t listen to a word.

“It’s okay if you don’t get it at first, here, give me your hand.” Before he could protest, she grabbed his hand, shoved a dough ball into his palm, and flipped it downward. Then her smaller hand slid over his, her heel pressing into the back of his hand to guide the motion.

“Like this,” she murmured, leaning just a little closer to ensure he could see. Her hand pressed forward in firm, rhythmic motions and the dough yielded under the combined force of their hands. Then she rotated the dough and repeated the motion, with deliberate pushes.

Bucky froze as the rhythmic pressure of her hand over his sent his mind somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t go. The heat in the kitchen suddenly felt suffocating, and he swallowed hard, trying to focus on the dough and not on the fact that her motions were… suggestive.

She was entirely unaware of his inner turmoil, focused on the task at hand. “See? You push like this and turn it. Then repeat.”

Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact, but Bucky’s traitorous mind kept replaying the way her body had looked earlier in that lacy bra, barefooted and glistening with sweat, and now her hand was on his, guiding movements that mirrored-

“Got it,” he blurted, pulling his hand away like the dough had burned him.

She blinked at him, surprised. “You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it,” he said quickly, flexing his fingers. “Why don’t you, uh… go open the store or something? You can sell the ready stuff, and I’ll finish here.”

Her brow furrowed, then she smirked. “Show me you can handle it first. Then I’ll go.”

Bucky nodded stiffly and got to work, kneading the dough with an intensity that had less to do with the task and more with willing his body and thoughts to calm down. He focused on each push, each turn, determined not to let his mind wander again.

After a moment, she hummed in approval. “Not bad. Alright, you’ve got this.” Tossing him an apron, she added with a grin, “Kitchen’s all yours.”

As she walked out, Bucky let out a long breath and grabbed a ridiculous amount of mid-mixed dough from the machine, barely registering its weight in his hands. He tied the apron around his waist, muttering something about how he’d never live this down if Sam found out, then plunged his hands into the dough with more force than necessary. The soft, yielding texture offered little resistance, and the repetitive motion gave him something to focus on, something to redirect the tension simmering under his skin.

Meanwhile, out front, she was practically buzzing. Well, besides the door incident -she’d have to figure out how to fix that later- and the fact he’d seen her in little more than her bra, the night hadn’t gone completely off the rails. She paused, glancing toward the kitchen and biting her lip.

The idea that Bucky Barnes was in her kitchen, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he worked dough like it was his mortal enemy, was surreal. Even in her wildest fantasies -and she’d had plenty- she’d never imagined this scenario.

She distracted herself by greeting a couple of late-night customers, all while sneaking glances toward the kitchen door. But the thought of having him there with flour dusting his strong hands, focused and serious, made her heart flip every time she let her mind wander free.

Back in the kitchen, Bucky gritted his teeth, determined to keep his focus on the task. He flattened the dough with swift, decisive movements, his vibranium arm doing the flips as his flesh one did the work. But even as he forced himself to concentrate, he couldn’t shake the memory of her soft hand on his, guiding him with firm pressure.

Fuck.

---

When he finally finished kneading the massive ball of dough, he stood there, staring at the smooth mound, realizing he had no idea what to do next. With a resigned sigh, he called out for her. “It’s ready,” he said, motioning to the dough. “Now what?”

“That’s for common bread. We let it rise for about half an hour, then shape it, let it rise again, and bake it.”

“Oh,” he said flatly. “So... you just wait?”

She nodded. “Yep.”

“Great,” he replied, crossing his arms. “Guess I’ll hang around. Liam’s not here, so you’d be stuck doing all this yourself. That can’t be easy, it’s a lot of dough.”

She tilted her head, clearly debating. “I’m used to it when it’s necessary.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you kicking me out?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “N-no!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he teased, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

She rolled her eyes, exhaling through her nose. “Want a coffee while we wait?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

They moved to the front of the shop, mugs in hand, settling into a more relaxed atmosphere. The conversation was light, drifting from coffee preferences to the quirks of late-night customers. The rain drummed against the windows, adding a cozy backdrop to the talk.

Then the bell above the door chimed, and two bikers strolled in.

Bucky’s eyes immediately snapped to them, stiffening his posture as he took them in. They were soaked, leather jackets gleaming under the fluorescent light. What caught him off guard wasn’t their appearance, it was their manners. The pair paused at the entrance, brushing their wet boots on the doormat before entering the shop.

“Evening, Y/n,” one of them said casually, nodding in her direction as they made their way to the counter.

Bucky stared, measuring them with a sharp gaze, his body language was calm but alert. He didn’t miss how their eyes briefly flicked to him, assessing, before focusing on her.

“Hey, Daniel, Jack,” she greeted them with an easy familiarity. “Usual?”

“Yeah, and maybe throw in one of those custard tarts,” one of them added, grinning.

As she moved behind the counter to prepare their order, Bucky leaned back slightly, still watching them. He wasn’t sure what he expected from the so-called “local bikers,” but brushing their boots off before entering wasn’t on the list.

One of them glanced his way again, tipping his chin in acknowledgment. “Friend of yours?”

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Helper for the night.”

Bucky just gave a faint nod. He wasn’t entirely sure why their casual familiarity rubbed him the wrong way, but something about how they interacted with her -relaxed, like they belonged- made him tense.

“So, Cookie,” the taller of the two bikers said, his deep voice carrying an easy familiarity. He had a Viking-style haircut, the sides of his head shaved while the top was long and braided, matching the beard he wore. “We swung by earlier, but you were closed. Anything amiss?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly at the nickname. Cookie?

“Oh, just old Edna broke, again,” she replied with a sigh, gesturing toward the kitchen. “I was trying to figure out what to do.”

The biker’s face broke into a knowing grin. “Y’should’ve called me. You know I’d have ‘er running again in a snap.”

She gave him a sheepish look. “It’s awful outside Jack, and Bucky here helped me out a lot. I was going to call you tomorrow, maybe take the day off.”

The biker’s gaze shifted to Bucky with a curious expression, if not slightly probing. “Did he, now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, just stared back at him.

She stepped in quickly, a cheerful note in her voice. “Well, here you go, guys,” she said, setting their bags of pastries and the requested custard tart on the counter.

But before she could finish ringing them up, Daniel added something to the order, sending her back to grab another treat.

With her out of earshot, the viking-wannabe fixed his gaze on Bucky again. “There somethin’ on ma face?” he asked, casual but a little edgy.

Bucky shrugged, relaxed, but his steel-blue eyes locked onto the man without wavering. “Nope.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension in the air could be cut with a knife.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, “You know, Cookie, I was thinking of stopping by tomorrow to fix the kneader myself.” His gaze never left the biker’s. “Don’t think your customers must stray from their duties.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, the biker let out a low chuckle, his smile more challenging than amused.

“Well, it won’t be a bother,” he drawled, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Since I always take care of Edna.”

Bucky’s lips quirked up in a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure you do.”

Somehow, she felt left out of the conversation. The way they stared each other down, the sharpness in their tones, it didn’t seem like they were talking about Edna anymore. It was like…

“C’mon, Jack,” the second biker interjected, breaking the thick silence, though his tone carried a subtle edge of warning. “The guys are waitin’. Cookie here will tell ya if she needs anythin’, won’t ya?”

She nodded quickly, eager to shift the mood, and handed over their order. “Yeah, of course. Thanks for always helping out.” Her smile was warm but a little strained as she accepted their payment.

Jack lingered for a bit, gaze still locked on Bucky’s. The other biker sighed and patted him on the arm. “At least help with somethin’, huh?” he added, shoving a large paper bag into his chest.

The man finally broke eye contact, muttering something under his breath as he grabbed the bag and turned toward the door. But before he turned to leave, he glanced back over his shoulder, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Don’t forget, Cookie, you know who to call if you need real help.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked, the faintest sign of irritation flashing in his eyes. He leaned back against the counter, one hand casually resting on the edge, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. “Sure thing,” he drawled, “If it comes to that, I’ll make sure she doesn’t have to wait.”

The implication in his words wasn’t lost on Jack, whose smirk faltered for just a second before he turned and strode out, the other biker following with an exasperated shake of his head.

As the door swung shut, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Well,” she said, attempting to sound lighthearted, “that was… something.”

Bucky’s gaze softened as he turned back to her, though the tension in his posture remained. “They always this ‘friendly’?”

She laughed awkwardly, brushing her hands on her apron. “Oh, they are, actually. They just get a little protective sometimes, you know? Like I’m their sister or something. Maybe they were just surprised to see you back here.”

He tilted his head, twitching his lips in what might’ve been a smile, but his eyes didn’t match the expression. “A sister, huh?”

She nodded, oblivious to the undercurrent in his tone, and started busying herself by tidying up the counter. To her, it was just Jack and his usual overbearing charm. But to Bucky, it was something else entirely.

Even as he tried to relax, his mind kept replaying the interaction. The way that guy had stood too close, his words heavy with meaning, the subtle posturing was anything but brotherly. Bucky had seen it all before, in darker and rougher places than this warm, flour-dusted bakery.

Except this time, it wasn’t just about dominance or some unspoken challenge. It was about her. And for reasons he wasn’t ready to name, that thought didn’t sit well with him at all.

“So," she started, cutting through the silence and his spiraling thoughts, "you were serious when you said you could fix the machine?"

"Yeah," he replied, keeping his face carefully neutral. "It’ll be a piece of cake."

Piece of cake, he repeated in his mind, trying to suppress the small pang of regret creeping up his spine. Sure, he had a working knowledge of mechanics, he’d helped Sam fix his boat, after all. But that had been different. Boats were his element, like motorcycles or cars. A fifty-year-old kneading machine? Well, he’ll find out tomorrow.

His impulsive desire to impress her -and maybe stake some kind of invisible claim- had won out. Now, all he could do was hope the thing wasn’t an unreadable mess.

She glanced at the clock and brushed her hands together. “Alright, time to give shape to the bread. It’s risen enough.”

Without missing a beat, she led the way back into the kitchen. The warm, yeasty air mingled with her faint perfume, wrapping around him like a comforting blanket.

She grabbed a portion of the dough and began to demonstrate. “Okay, so these are the basics,” she said, her fingers moving deftly. “For buns, you just roll the dough into smooth balls. Like this.” She cupped her hands around the dough, rolling it against the counter in a quick, practiced motion until it was perfectly round. “Braids and baguettes are a little trickier. The braids are just three strands, like hair. And baguettes, well, you stretch and roll them into shape. But you can stick with the buns for now, they’re easier.”

Bucky nodded, reaching for a piece of dough. He hesitated for a moment, as the memory of her hand guiding his earlier flashed in his mind. His throat tightened, and he focused on the dough, rolling it between his hands.

“Like this?” he asked, holding up a slightly lopsided bun.

She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Almost. Use the heel of your hand a little more to smooth it out. Here.” She stepped closer, brushing her fingers lightly over his. This time, she didn’t guide him directly, but the proximity was enough to make his heart thud against his ribs.

He adjusted his grip and tried again, and she gave an approving nod. “There you go. See? You’re a natural.”

As they worked side by side, she kept talking. “Most of this will have to go on sale tomorrow, probably at half price. But having you here is a real help. If I’d had to do all this alone, I might’ve had to throw some of the dough out.”

Her words struck a chord, and a pang of happiness settled in his chest. It wasn’t much, just a small acknowledgment of his effort, but it filled a hollow part of him he didn’t even realize was there.

He stole a glance at her as she focused on a braid, her hands working the dough with practiced ease. A strand of hair had fallen loose, brushing against her cheek. She pushed it back with her wrist, leaving a faint streak of flour across her temple. It made her look effortlessly endearing, and he quickly averted his eyes, focusing back on the dough in his hands.

Unbeknownst to him, she was doing the same. She caught glimpses of him as he worked, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his calloused flesh hand and the vibranium one surprisingly gentle as he shaped the dough. Something was captivating about how he moved, so deliberate yet careful, like he was afraid of breaking something.

“Looks like you’re getting the hang of it,” she said, glancing over at his growing pile of buns.

“Yeah, well,” he replied, rolling another piece of dough under his palms. “Not exactly rocket science.”

She chuckled, “I don’t know. You’ve got a good touch. It took me a week to get my buns to look that smooth while doing it swiftly.”

Every time their gazes met -accidentally, fleetingly- it was like a spark flared in the air between them. Then, one of them would quickly look away, snapping their attention back to the dough. It was a quiet rhythm of stolen glances and fleeting touches, building a connection that felt as tangible as the dough in their hands.

-----

The bread was neatly shaped and lined up on trays, ready to rise once more before its final trip to the oven. She covered the trays with damp cloths, brushing her hands on her apron as she glanced at the clock. “Alright, now we wait again. Should be ready for the oven in about half an hour.”

Bucky nodded, stepping back to let her take the lead. “You need me to do anything else?”

“Not right now,” she replied with a small smile. “I’ll take care of the customers while we wait. You can… I don’t know, hang out if you want?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Sure.”

She disappeared into the front of the shop, the bell over the door jingling faintly as a pair of officers entered. Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching her from the kitchen as she greeted them warmly.

“Evening, boys. The usual?”

“Yup. Two coffees and a box of donuts,” one of the cops said, glancing over at Bucky briefly. His partner followed the look, squinting slightly before his eyes widened.

“Sergeant Barnes,” the officer said, his voice respectful but tinged with curiosity.

Bucky stiffened slightly at being at being recognized, but he nodded. “Good evening.”

The officer hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “Uh, sorry if this is out of line, but… would it be okay if I got a picture with you?”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, glancing at her for a brief second. She offered him an encouraging smile, and he finally nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

The officer grinned and handed his phone to his partner. They stood together for the picture, Bucky keeping his usual neutral expression, though the officer looked thrilled.

As the partner handed the phone back, he chuckled, glancing between Bucky and her. “Didn’t know you were friends with Cookie here. Lucky you, she’s got the best donuts in the neighborhood.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, but she laughed and rolled her eyes before he could say anything. “Alright, enough buttering me up. Your coffee’s getting cold.”

The cops thanked her again, waved at Bucky, and headed out, leaving the shop quiet once more.

He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he looked at her. “So… they call you Cookie too, huh?”

She chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “It’s just a nickname my grandma gave me when I was little. She used to call me her little cookie because I’d sneak cookie dough every time she baked. I guess it stuck, and eventually, the regulars picked it up, too.”

“Little cookie,” he repeated, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Does it bother you?”

“Not really,” she said, shrugging. “It’s kind of sweet, actually”

Bucky hummed in response, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “Fits you.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the compliment, but before she could respond, he straightened up. “Guess I’ll head out now. I’ll be back tomorrow to take a look at that machine. Ah… actually... I owe you one more thing.”

Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“The door,” he admitted, glancing toward it sheepishly. “Remember I kind of... broke it thinking you were in trouble?”

Her mouth opened slightly in realization, and for a fleeting moment, the two of them were transported back to that chaotic instant, him storming into the kitchen, with his eyes wild with concern, only to find her jumping in her bra, startled but unharmed.

A faint heat rose to her cheeks, and she quickly looked down, busying her hands with the edge of her apron. “Right. The door,” she said, a touch higher than usual.

“I’ll run up to my place and grab a chain and a lock,” he offered, clearly trying to sound casual, though the tips of his ears were suspiciously red. “It’s not much, but it’ll hold until you can get it fixed.”

“That’s... really thoughtful of you,” she said softly, sneaking a glance at him. “Thanks.”

He nodded once, tightening his jaw slightly as if bracing himself, before turning toward the door. “Wait here. I’ll be quick.”

-------

When he returned, he carried a chain and lock in hand, the metal clinking softly as he stepped through the door. Without a word, he moved to the broken door and began securing the temporary fix, his movements sure and steady. She stayed nearby, her arms crossed lightly over her apron, watching him work.

“Will you manage to close up on your own?” he asked, testing the chain one last time to ensure it held.

She nodded, her lips curving into a faint smile. “I’ll be fine.”

He lingered momentarily at the doorway, meeting her gaze as though debating whether to press further. Instead, he simply stepped back, giving her a small, almost shy smirk. “Alright, then.”

He turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Cookie.”

The nickname rolled off his tongue with ease, leaving her a little stunned as the bell over the door jingled behind him.

-----

That night, she lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling as the evening replayed itself in vivid detail. Every stolen glance, every fleeting touch, every word exchanged lingered in her mind, refusing to let her settle into sleep. She rolled over, grabbing a pillow and hugging it tightly, only to let out a muffled squeal, burying her face in the fabric.

It all felt like something out of a novel, the kind her grandmother used to read, with their slow-burn tension and moments of unexpected closeness. Him standing there in her kitchen, sleeves rolled up, kneading dough with those ridiculously strong hands. The warmth of his smirk when he called her "Cookie" before leaving.

She sighed, turning onto her back again, staring at the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through her curtains. Don’t get carried away, she reminded herself. He was… Bucky Barnes, for crying out loud. The man probably had a private life he kept well-guarded. Dating, maybe even a girlfriend waiting for him somewhere. Someone who could offer him more than just late-night baking disasters and a small-town charm bubble in the big city.

“Oh, whatever,” she mumbled, throwing an arm over her face. It was free to fantasize, right? Just a harmless indulgence in the possibilities, no matter how far-fetched.

----

Bucky lay on the couch in his apartment, replaying the events of the night on a loop in his mind. Her hand, firm yet soft, guiding his against the dough in that rhythmic motion. He could still feel her touch and her warmth seeping into his skin. He groaned softly, shifting as he became acutely aware of the pang of need stirring under his sweatpants.

“Damn it,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. Was he really that touch-starved? The answer was obvious.

But then another thought struck him, one that pulled his focus away from his frustration. Her touch hadn’t made him uncomfortable. Not in the way he’d grown used to: tensing, the inevitable flinch, or the tightening of his chest. No, being near her, having her hands on his, had done the opposite in a way he hadn’t felt in years -decades-.

His mind shifted to the kneading machine. He had all but volunteered to fix the thing, despite only a vague knowledge of how it worked. He cursed under his breath, drowning in anxiety as he realized he could very well embarrass himself tomorrow. She’d been so grateful, trusted him so easily. The last thing he wanted was to let her down.

Then there was the other thing, the background he could never escape. Even though she’d been cool about it. He was damaged goods, and he knew that, but still... a part of him wanted her to notice him.

To see him, Bucky, the guy who helped her in the kitchen, who wanted to make her smile, who was ready to spend hours fixing her stupid kneading machine just for the excuse to see her again.

Fuck. This was going to be one of those nights.

----

By the time morning gave way to the agreed-upon hour, Bucky found himself standing outside the bakery, a hand tucked into his jacket pocket as he knocked on the glass of the front door. He might -or might not- have put some effort into dressing for the occasion, trading his usual hoodie for a henley that clung just enough to hint at his physique under his jacket. Still, the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his sleepless night.

She appeared from the back, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted towel, and her face lit up as she spotted him.

“Cookie,” he greeted with a faint smirk as she unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Sergeant,” she replied, the corner of her mouth quirking up in amusement.

The exchange felt oddly natural, like a line out of an old movie. She opened the door with a soft laugh, stepping aside to let him in. He strolled toward the back, the scent of freshly baked bread of the previous night lingering in the air as she followed.

“Let’s see the beast,” he said, nodding toward the old kneader, circling once like a predator sizing up its prey.

“All yours” she answered, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. “Think you can handle it?”

He shot her a mock-serious glance. “We’ll see.”

As he studied the machine, his eyes flicked to the sturdy work table beside it.

“You got a cloth or something to cover this?”

She frowned slightly, her brows knitting together in confusion. “A cloth?”

“Something that can get dirty,” he clarified.

“Uh… sure.” She rummaged through a drawer and pulled out an old, slightly worn tablecloth, tossing it to him.

“Thanks,” he said, unfolding it and laying it across the table.

Her confusion deepened as he positioned himself beside the kneader. “What are you-”

She didn’t get to finish the question before Bucky gripped the sides of the heavy machine, lifting it like it weighed no more than a loaf of bread. He turned and placed it carefully on the table, adjusting it until it sat at an angle he deemed perfect for inspection.

She blinked, stunned for a moment before her lips parted in an incredulous laugh.

It wasn’t necessary, he could’ve worked on it just fine where it sat. But something in him wanted to do it anyway, to leave her watching, even if just for a moment.

She raised a brow, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. There was a teasing glint in her eyes when she said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to impress me.”

Bucky froze for a second, then, slowly, he turned his head to look at her with an unreadable expression at first. But then the corner of his mouth quirked up, softening his otherwise stoic features. “Did it work?” he asked, carrying just a hint of challenge.

She felt a flutter in her chest she wasn’t ready to name. Biting her lip to suppress a smile, she fought to keep her voice steady. “Fix Edna,” she quipped, tilting her chin toward the kneader as if to deflect the heat in the air, “and maybe I’ll tell you.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes, an almost boyish mischief that made her pulse quicken. “Challenge accepted,” he said, turning back to the machine.

As he bent over the kneader, his metal hand steadying it while his flesh one worked the bolts loose, she let herself watch him for a moment. Something was mesmerizing about the way he moved: deliberate, confident, his sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that looked sculpted to dismantle things like this.

Luckily for Bucky, Edna really was a piece of cake. As he worked through the simple mechanics of the old machine, a wave of relief settled over him. He didn’t know why he’d been so preoccupied with the possibility of failure. Maybe it was because the stakes weren’t just about fixing a kneader, it was about proving himself in some quiet, unspoken way.

“Do you have a cable extension to test it?” he asked after reassembling the final part, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Yeah, hang on,” she said, disappearing for a moment before returning with a long orange cord. She plugged it in, watching as he connected it to the machine.

When the kneader whirred to life, steady and smooth, she clapped her hands together once, the sound bright and cheerful in the warm kitchen. Her smile, wide and genuine, was aimed directly at him. “You did it!” she exclaimed, with a contagious enthusiasm.

Bucky felt a jolt in his chest, like a sudden surge of energy. That smile, so pure and full of warmth, made him feel capable of almost anything. For a brief moment, it silenced the nagging voices in his head that constantly questioned his worth.

He turned off the machine and lifted it again, carefully placing it back in its original spot. He adjusted it slightly, turning it until it sat exactly as it had before, deliberately and unhurriedly.

“Show-off,” she teased lightly, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Still riding the wave of her praise, he smirked, grabbing a rag to wipe his hands. “So?” he asked, with a tone just bordering on playful. “You have to tell me now if it worked.”

She blinked, momentarily knitting her brows in confusion. “What…oh,” she murmured. He wasn’t talking about the machine. Her mind flicked back to their earlier exchange, and warmth crept up her neck as she bit her lip, suddenly feeling all too shy under his gaze.

“How could I not be impressed?” she said softly, meeting his eyes with a hint of nervousness.

Bucky’s smirk lingered since her words boosted his confidence. “Good to know,” he replied in a low, almost intimate tone.

Her laughter came nervously, breaking the silence. “Alright, Mr. Fix-It, let’s not-”

She didn’t finish her sentence since Bucky, still high on boldness, took a step closer. “You know,” he started in a steady voice, despite the rapid thrum of his heart, “I’m starting to think impressing you might be my new favorite hobby.”

Her lips parted in surprise, “Bucky…”

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he murmured, his flesh hand lifting just slightly, hovering near her arm as if waiting for permission.

She didn’t pull away. Instead, her nervous laugh melted into a smile, and her eyes locked onto his. “You’re not.”

That was all the confirmation he needed. Closing the gap between them, he leaned in, in a mix of deliberate but hesitant movements, like he feared the moment might shatter.

When their lips met, it was soft at first, a gentle, tentative connection that quickly deepened. Her hands instinctively rested against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palms.

For Bucky, the world seemed to narrow to just this: the warmth of her lips, the faint scent of flour and sugar on her skin, and the way she melted into him as if she belonged there.

When they let go, her eyes fluttered open, wide and searching, and her lips parted as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“Wow,” she breathed finally, the word barely audible but carrying all the wonder she couldn’t express.

Bucky’s gaze flicked between her eyes and her slightly swollen lips. His own breath was uneven, and his voice rough as he muttered, “Yeah. Wow.”

She let out a nervous laugh, her cheeks warm as she glanced down, only for him to tilt her chin up with a gentle finger. His expression had softened, the earlier mischief replaced by something more vulnerable.

Without waiting for her to pull away -or maybe daring her to- he leaned in again. This time, there was no hesitation, no careful testing. The second kiss was deeper, and more purposeful, stealing her breath away.

She responded instinctively, slipping her arms around his shoulders as she pressed closer. His metal hand found her waist, firm and steady, while his flesh one cradled her jaw, brushing his thumb along her cheek in a tender contrast to the intensity of the kiss.

The world outside the bakery seemed to fade, and when they finally broke apart, breathing heavily, her voice was soft, almost shy, as she finally managed to say, “If that’s how you fix things, maybe Edna should break more often.”

Bucky chuckled lowly, trailing his fingers down her arm as he leaned back just enough to see her face. “Careful, there,” he replied with boyish grin. “I might start breaking things on purpose.”

She laughed, shaking her head as her hands lingered against his chest. “Just… don’t let it be my heart, okay?”

The teasing glint in his eyes softened at her words, replaced by something deeper that made her heart race again.

“Never,” he promised leaning in slightly, nearly touching her forehead with his. Slowly, deliberately, his body shifted closer, bracketing his hands on her sides, palms resting lightly on the edge of the workbench, gently caging her in.

“If you have me, doll…” His voice softened, laced with a husky tremor, as though each word was pulled from the deepest parts of him. He paused, pressing his lips together briefly, while his gaze flickered uncertainly. She could see the struggle in his eyes, the weight of unspoken fears and hopes battling within him. “I’ll treasure you the way you deserve.”

There he was, exposed and raw, offering her the most vulnerable parts of himself. And she saw it all, the battered pieces, the scars both seen and unseen, and the wonder in his expression that someone like her could even consider him worth it.

All the previous cockiness evaporated as he waited for her response, his breath caught in his chest. He didn’t move, didn’t dare.

She blinked up at him, parting her lips slightly as her hands lifted from where they rested against the workbench. For a heartbeat, she hesitated, before reaching out, tracing the curve of his jaw.

“You already do,” she whispered. Her thumb brushed the faint stubble on his cheek, and she smiled softly, a mixture of disbelief and certainty shining in her eyes. She rose onto her toes and brought her lips to his. The kiss was more deliberate this time, an answer in every sense, with a confidence that left no room for doubt. When she pulled back slightly, she looked into his hooded eyes. “I’ll take care of you too, Bucky. I promise, " she said tenderly.

His lips curved into a rare, radiant smile, one that softened every hard edge of his tired face. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared at her with such unguarded joy it made her heart flutter all over again. Then, without warning, his strong hands found her waist, and he lifted her effortlessly off the ground.

She gasped, a delighted laugh spilling from her lips as he spun her around, the room blurring for a moment as the motion carried them both. His own low chuckle mingled with hers, a sound so rich and full like a victory, a triumph for once, over the weight he’d been carrying for so long.

When he set her down gently, he kept his hands on her waist, and she leaned into him, their laughter fading into a warm, contented silence as she rested her hands against his chest. His heart raced beneath her palms, matching her erratic pulse.

They didn’t need to say anything more. At this moment, their shared warmth in the dusty floured kitchen was enough. The world and the rhythm of the weekday could wait a little longer.

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

2K notes · View notes