vibing & keeping it tight

It was unexpected, the first time she kissed you. It seemed like she came out of nowhere and was immediately in your space, her face inches away, glancing between your eyes and your lips. You knew exactly what her intentions were. The tension between the two of you had been building for weeks. Between the soft lingering touches and heated glances, you thought you might combust if she didn’t kiss you soon.

But Nat never let you reach your breaking point, coming to you in that moment, her face so close to yours, pressing your foreheads together. Or maybe she absolutely let you hit your breaking point- you’re pretty certain you leaned in to kiss her first, though you can’t be sure. Either way, you’ll never forget the way her lips had moved so softly against yours that first time, how they seemed so sweet but so unsure. And the contrast of the confident, sharp, little smirk on her face as she pulled away. It all made you come undone. You remember trying to wrap her in your arms, but she just gave you a quick kiss on the cheek and was gone.

When Steve and Sam walked in a moment or two later, you were still frozen in place, one hand on your smiling lips, the other on your cheek, trying to hold onto the feeling of the kisses, the feel of her lips.

Sam and Steve kept asking you what had happened, but you couldn’t tell them, couldn’t even form coherent thoughts.

Since then, Nat had stolen more kisses from you, but it always ended too fast, with her disappearing and one of the other Avengers showing up seconds later. It seemed like the two of you could never be alone. One of you was always off on a mission or had some social obligation, or there were just too many people around.

Whatever was between you and Nat, it was new and precious. So it was not something you wanted out in the open just yet. And Nat made it clear she felt the same, always vanishing right before someone walked by, leaving you breathless and disoriented. Honestly you thought she might have some super soldier hearing or some secret ability to see through the walls because she seemed to know where everyone was, somehow always sensed people approaching a solid minute before you did.

At first, you thought she might have been embarrassed of you, the first time she ran away. When she came back for another soon after, you knew it was something else that kept her receding into the shadows, pulling your little romance into the dark with her.

It had been weeks since that first kiss and you were dying to get Natasha alone, if even just to talk about the situation. You hadn’t had time at all to kiss her properly, much less discuss whatever this was between the two of you.

So when the day finally came where you two had the facility to yourselves, you jumped at the opportunity. Rushing into the common room, you found her, looking at you almost expectantly, as if you were her invited guest who had just arrived.

“I thought we could talk, now that we have a minute alone,” she said, tilting her head towards the spot on the couch next to her. You swore it was like she could read your mind sometimes.

“Nat I-” you started, before she cut you off with a hand on your wrist.

“Do you mind if I go first?” You couldn’t be sure, but for a moment it looked like she might lose her nerve to say what was on her mind if you said any more. You simply shook your head, moving your hand to hold hers, lacing your fingers together, squeezing just a bit, urging her to continue.

“I just wanted to let you know,” she started, before murmuring your name, and you swore you would melt on the spot, the way her lips held your name more gently than anyone before her ever had. “I like you,” she continued in a whisper, “I really like you. And I don’t even know what you must think, the way I keep running away from you.” Her voice got a bit more shaky and her words a bit more rushed as she continued, “You must think I don’t want to be seen with you and I- this is just new to me and-” she stopped suddenly, looking down at the space between you, and you didn’t hesitate to squeeze her hand again, noticing how her grip on you had tightened, and cupping her face in the other, gently angling her head up to look at you.

“Hey. Hey, Nat, no. Don’t worry. I get it. This is new to me too. I get it. We’ll figure it out together, at our own pace. Don’t worry about it.” You couldn’t help but smile at her, both to reassure her and because you couldn’t help yourself, she was so goddamn pretty. You had always known her to be all straight lines and right angles, sharp enough to pierce your skin if you got too close, rubbed her the wrong way. You knew it was mostly a facade she had adopted, something that made her feel safe and protected after everything she’d been through. You just didn’t know how much of it was a mask. Looking at her now, her face was more vulnerable than you had ever seen it before. You could plainly see she was made entirely of soft, subtle curves. All her seemingly parallel lines revealed a slight curvature up close- something you’d easily miss from a distance. And god, if she was beautiful before, she was absolutely stunning like this.

You didn’t even realize just looking at her had stolen your breath until you noticed her sudden inhale, the way her eyes seemed to be reflecting the same adoration you were sure was plain in yours. Before you could catch your breath, her lips crashed into yours, literally stealing the oxygen straight out of your lungs, but you happily surrendered it all to her.

While the conversation following the kiss had been much needed and more straightforward, and while the cuddling that followed had made you feel so warm and content, it had quickly evolved into something else.

All she had to do was look at you, pupils blown wide, and that was it. Now you were kissing her, capturing her lips like she was light, or water, or something that would slip just as easily through your fingers.

She kissed you like she was starving.

Your thoughts were so full of her you’re not even sure how it happened, you’re just kissing her on the couch, and next thing you know, you’re shoving your door closed with your back as Nat pushes you into it, trapping you. Her hands and the pressure of her body pressing against you are the only things keeping you locked in your heated skin. Because when she lets go and moves back an inch, you’re not sure if you’re a person or a flame until she’s tugging your shirt over your head and your knuckles brush her skin as you pull hers off in turn and you think maybe, somehow, you’re both.

It’s when you’ve been shoved back onto your bed and Natasha has her weight solidly on top of you, her hair a circle of flames around your faces, that she suddenly hops off of you, eyes so wide and round with fear. Not a second later, you hear the knock on the door.

“One second!” you practically scream, far too loud and too panicked to be casual, as Nat throws your shirt to you. In the split second your eyes are closed to dress yourself, she has completely disappeared. You quickly sit at your desk and grab the first thing you see.

Quickly glancing in your vanity mirror, you see absolutely no trace of Natasha anywhere. You might not have believed the past hour was even real if not for the scent of her, the combination of her perfume and shampoo and laundry detergent, clinging to your skin where she was just pressed against you.

“Come on in!”

When Steve walks in, you hold up the liquid eyeliner in your hand.

“Sorry Steve, I was trying to focus on getting the wing right.”

Steve looks at you with concern and confusion dripping from his face and his voice as he says your name and informs you, “You don’t even have any eyeliner on.”

“Shit,” you’re trying to think of something quickly, something that will make him drop it, and before you know it, you’re saying, “All right. You caught me Steve. I was reading smut. Just didn’t want to tell you. You better not tell anyone else about this either!”

With the shade of red Steve’s face has turned, you know you’ve succeeded and that he’ll keep it to himself even before he softly assures you, “I won’t, I promise.”

“So,” you redirect, “what can I do for you, Captain? I doubt you’ve come looking for any spicy book recommendations.”

His blush deepens. “No, I- I wanted to ask you to come down to the common room for a team meeting.”

“Sure thing, Cap,” you flash him a smile, and he nearly walks away before he turns back to you.

“And hey, have you seen Nat? I can’t find her anywhere.” It takes everything in you to hold an innocent expression.

“Oh, you know how she is. You just can’t find her if she doesn’t want to be found.”

Steve sighs, and lets out a mirthless chuckle. “You’re right about that. I’m sure she’ll find us sooner or later.” He waves, beckoning you to follow him as he turns and walks away.

You’re almost at the door to follow him out when an arm reaches out from behind the closet door and pulls you in, a hand quickly covering your mouth to muffle the yelp of surprise that escapes you.

When her face comes into focus in the dark of the closet, you can see she's smirking- and also did not even bother putting her shirt back on.

“Porn, huh?” she quips, lowering her hand as she raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at you.

“I di-” Her hand comes back up to cover your mouth a split second before you hear Steve calling your name and his footsteps as he walks back into your room.

You and Nat have to hold each other to smother the giggles when you hear Steve’s circling footsteps, calling your name again, sounding absolutely perplexed as he no doubt looks around for where you could have disappeared to. But you can't help breaking when he storms off, muttering something to himself about “all these goddamn assassins” and “why can’t they just walk around normally? Why do they always have to sneak everywhere?”

When the giggles subside, you take in the closet you’re standing in, the way it looks from the inside.

“A bit on the nose, isn’t it?” You wave your hand around you, a smile growing on your face as hers lights up in laughter.

“Well,” you say, reluctantly pulling out of her grasp, “we should probably get to that meeting.”

“They’ll be fine without us,” she says, pulling you back into her arms.

“You know they fall apart without us, Nat.”

The ceiling above you is familiar, the starch of the sheets on your back as you stretch out familiar, the light filtering through the cracks in the blinds from the window on the right familiar. Even the man beside you, snoring, arm draped over yours like a heated blanket, is familiar. Everything is soft, bathed in a rosy glow as you blink awake, turning to look at the messy mop of brown locks that hide the face of a certain super soldier whose bed you tend to frequent.

What’s not familiar is the nakedness of your body.

Your eyes snap open—fully open—and the pain of a thousand nails being hammered into your head hits you with a force that brings bile up your throat. The rosy glow from a few seconds ago? Now it’s simply a bright pain lancing your eyes.

The ceiling above you is fuzzy, the starchy sheets are itching your bare skin, the light streaming in from the window makes you want to cry.

And the man beside you—

A hot mouth on your throat, pink lips sucking bruises upon your neck as his tongue follows the pattern he’s making, licking over the marks as if he can taste your blood through the layers of your skin.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs against you, nose caressing your collarbone. “Makin’ all those noises for me.”

You gasp in response, unable to form words, fingers tightening in his hair where you’ve pulled it from its tie.

Oh fuck. Cradling your head in your hands, you curse beneath your breath. The arm thrown around your waist tightens, pulling you closer, and it takes all your strength to slip out from underneath him and tumble onto the floor. Tears burn your eyes just about as hot as the light of day burns right now.

Clothes litter the floor and you shuffle toward them, searching for the black dress you wore last night. Instead, you find a ruined scrap of black fabric that you guarantee once looked like what you walked into Tony’s gala wearing. It almost makes you want to laugh, but laughing feels a lot like crying right now, especially when you find the tatters of the lace lingerie you wore underneath.

There’s a pause in the snoring from the bed and the sound of a body twisting in the sheets. Heart racing, you swipe a pair of forgotten boxers from the floor and dart for the dresser where a lone gray sweater lay, unfolded, like it was meant for you. You slip the familiar clothes on and slip out the door, a familiar murmur of your name the last thing you hear before the door clicks closed behind you.

The hallway you walk down, barefoot, shaking, your arms wrapped around your waist as if it’ll keep the chill out, seems unending. It isn’t until you’re back in your own room, door locked and curtains pulled closed, that you finally sink into your bed. The tears don’t take long after that—they rush to the surface and blind you, pain stabbing every soft part of your body as you curl up into a ball and cry. The hangover doesn’t hurt as bad as your heart does.

‘Cause you surely, definitely, undoubtedly slept with Bucky Barnes last night.

And you can’t remember any of it.

Your back hits the frame of the door and a groan slips from your lips, swallowed only by the mouth on yours. His hand is hot where it cradles your cheek, a colder set of fingers drumming against your back as he leads you, clumsily, into his room.

“You’re drunk,” you slur between kisses, moaning at the taste of his tongue as it invades your mouth, sliding against yours.

“So are you.”

You: What happened last night?

Tash: Aw, too hungover to remember twerking on Steve?

You: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT

Tash: Just kidding. You just hung all over Bucky, as per usual.

You: Was he drunk?

Tash: Sloshed. Him and Steve got into Thor’s stash.

You: Fuck.

Tash: ???

You: I think I slept with him.

It takes less than three minutes for Natasha to arrive, override FRIDAY’s system, and break into your room.

“You slept with him?”

Groaning, you throw a pillow at her that she dodges easily.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you confess. “But I’m almost sure I did, Nat.”

With all the grace of a trained spy, she climbs into your bed, her hand falling on your knee. You flop back into the pillows with a huff, heels of your palms pressing into your eyes as if it’ll hide the tear tracks from her, but your sniffles reveal your struggle.

“What did he say?”

“Well, about that, the funny thing is…”

The hand that’s been lovingly stroking your knee now slaps your skin, making you yelp and tuck your legs underneath you. Natasha grabs your ankle, tugging you down from the pillows, closer toward her and you gulp.

“You mean to tell me you didn’t even talk to him about it?” Her voice is a low growl, eyes cut in a glare directed at you, and you almost shiver under the scrutiny.

“Damn, mama.” You flash her a grin. “Maybe I should’ve slept with you instead—Hey! Ouch! Cut it out!”

The pillow she assaults you with, while soft, sends pain radiating through your skull with every hit. You groan and shove her away from you, batting the weapon from her hand, and when she sees your eyes scrunched up in agony, she relents. Natasha falls against the mattress beside you, shaking her head, staring at you.

“Why didn’t you just talk to him?” she asks, eyes sharp with concern.

“I dunno,” you mumble, gazing up at the ceiling. “He was still sleeping and I just panicked. Ran right for the door. Didn’t bother to think about asking him, ‘Hey, Bucky, did we hook up last night? ‘Cause I can’t remember a damn thing and—while we’re on the subject—was it any good?’”

Nat’s hand on your arm is careful, but gripping.

“Was it consensual?”

Your head snaps to look at her, eyes wide.

“Jesus, Nat,” you sputter. “Of course—I mean—As much consent as you can give when you’re drunk I guess. I don’t remember anything but fuck, given the chance I would have jumped his bones this morning, for fuck’s sake, if I wasn’t so goddamn mortified at the fact that—”

A tear resounds from somewhere and briefly, you feel cool air crawl up your heated thighs, curling around them like it's seeking out the honey seeping through your panties. You pull away from his lips and glance down, barely registering the fact that the seam of your dress has been split by a pair of calloused, eager fingers. A sloppy kiss finds your cheek.

“Sorry,” he says, gruff and unyielding. “Buy you a new one.” And then his mouth attaches to the hollow of your throat and you forget what you were even going to say.

“What?” Natasha asks, pulling you from a hazy memory. “If you weren’t so worried about what?”

Your teeth sink into your lip and you smile at her, eyes glassy.

“That he doesn’t want me. That he only wanted me because he was drunk,” you tell her quietly.

“You’re drunk,” you remember saying, you remember meaning, you remember trying to ask it like a question.

“So are you,” you remember him answering.

“That it’s the only time I’ll ever have with the man I’m in love with and I can’t even remember it, Tash—I can’t remember it.”

With Natasha’s help, you make it a whole two days without seeing Bucky. She’s kind enough to ferry a few meals back and forth—between your room and the kitchen—and manages to do it without raising suspicion. Well, not a lot of suspicion anyway. Anyone who asks gets Natasha’s famous stare and some flimsy excuse about you being sick.

On the third day when you’re texting her to ask for a banana nut muffin, she texts back in all caps.

Tasha: TALK TO HIM OR STARVE.

You reluctantly drag yourself out of bed and put real clothes on, your stomach too talkative to ignore any longer. A pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt later, you’re traipsing through the hallways and trying not to think about Bucky Barnes, or seeing Bucky Barnes, or what you’re going to say to Bucky Barnes. No, he’s not on your mind at all.

And yet you peer around the corner and into the kitchen warily as if you’re afraid he’ll be there.

When you’re sure it’s empty, you slide inside and grab that damn banana nut muffin you’d been craving earlier, cracking open the fridge to search for something to drink. Steve’s drank all the milk—again—and there’s only enough orange juice left for Wanda tomorrow, so you grab a bottle of water and prepare to head back to your room with your stolen goods.

Except one Bucky Barnes is in your way, blocking your escape, his blue eyes big and his body frozen as he stares at you.

“Hey,” he says, an exhale.

“Hey,” you say, voice weak and stringy. Vaguely, you wonder if you tossed the muffin at his head if it would distract him long enough for you to slip past him, but you doubt it’s a solid plan. Instead, you stand there, shifting from one foot to the other, waiting for Bucky to say something else.

He looks good, as usual. The dark sweats that cling to his strong thighs are snug around his waist, visible by the shirt that’s stretched across his abdomen like he grabbed it from Gap Kids. There’s a sliver of his stomach that your eyes are allowed to sweep over for a mere second before your gaze snaps back up to his face.

There are dark circles decorating the skin under his eyes, as if he hasn’t been getting much sleep. Less than he normally does, at least. And his bottom lip looks chapped and chewed. You want to reach into your pocket and dig out the chapstick you always carry around with you and hand it to him, but that seems like too much.

Like maybe once it was okay to offer something so casually to him, but now it’s different. Before, it would be his lips touching something that has touched yours. Now, you can’t remember what he tasted like that night. Had you even kissed him, unbridled?

Your fingers trail over his chest, hands shaking as your touch glides down his abdomen, muscles damp with sweat. He breathes heavily. You mouth over his collarbones, tracing shapes over his bones with your tongue like you’re trying to make art out of his skin. You lick up the salt of him. He groans and it sounds like your new favorite song.

There’s a hand tangled in your hair, tightening, bringing your mouth up to his. Your eyes roll back into your head.

He looks good like this. You wish you could remember how good he looked naked.

Are you allowed to remember?

“You—” Bucky coughs. It echoes in the empty kitchen and sends your heart scattering into rapid beats. For a moment, his eyes glance away to stare at the floor, but then he clears his throat again.

When his gaze meets yours, you feel like you’re drowning. All the air is leaving the room. Your lungs refuse to work.

“You okay?” he asks, and you swallow.

“Yeah,” you say. “Why?”

Bucky scratches the back of his head, frowning. “Jus’ haven’t seen you in a while, is all.”

“Oh.” You bite your lip. “Yeah.”

It feels like an hour before anyone moves. Bucky takes a step forward, into the kitchen, further caging you in place. And then he takes another step and you back up against the counter. The frown he’s twisted his lips into never leaves his face. It doesn’t suit him. You can’t help but wonder what your own face looks like in this moment.

Probably terrified, honestly.

“Listen,” he says, and there’s a little tremor in his voice, a little hesitation, and you know exactly what’s coming.

What happened the other night…

I’m sorry…

It was a mistake…

We were drunk…

I don’t like you that way…

Let’s forget it ever happened…

Forget it? How can you forget something you can’t even remember?

So you make a break for the doorway. You dart past Bucky, feet slipping on the tiled floors and looking for traction, and you almost slip out of the kitchen and into the hallway when his hand encircles your wrist and catches you. In an instant, your head snaps back to look at him.

He’s panicked, a look so scared and still so innocent it makes your heart shudder in your breast. His blue eyes are depths that swallow you, the riptides that sweep your legs out from under you and pull you further into the vast ocean waters. He has you—in so many more ways than he’ll ever know. In more ways than he’ll ever want.

Bucky’s lips part to speak, and that’s when the alarm goes off, all bright, flashing lights.

FRIDAY’s voice comes to life over the intercom, saying, “The Compound is now under attack. Intruders have breached floor five and are currently on their way up.”

“Thank christ,” you blurt, looking at Bucky, and then you rip your wrist away from his grasp and take off toward the armory.

“What’s your status?” Steve’s voice invades your ear as soon as you turn your comms on.

Well I’ve got a bulletproof vest strapped over my pajamas and extra clips shoved in my pocket, so not great, Steve, you want to say.

“Armed and headed down the stairs,” you report instead, rolling the waistband of your sweats up and tying the strings up in a tight knot.

“Negative,” Steve calls back. “Stay with Bucky on the tenth. A squad made it past us on the seventh and are on their way up. Nat’s with Bruce down below.”

“Copy,” Bucky’s voice crackles over the comms. “We’ll hold position on the tenth.”

You curse under your breath, switching the safety off your rifle. “Of course I’m stuck with him,” you mutter to yourself, checking and re-checking the magazine you’ve loaded.

“Got a problem with me, sweetheart?”

At the sound of his voice off comms, your head whips around. Bucky strides up behind you, his own rifle fitted against his shoulder, and you vaguely realize that he’s dressed in a tac-suit. He’s even got boots on. You wiggle the toes you’ve shoved into a pair of slippers.

“How the fuck did you have time to get dressed?” you sputter.

“I spent less time runnin’ from my best friend,” he snaps, and it might as well be the first time he’s ever raised his voice at you. Spoke so coldly to you. A chill inches up your spine like it’s measuring his words.

“I wasn’t running from you,” you lie, but Bucky brushes past you.

“Right,” he deadpans. “You’ve just been avoiding me for days and the minute I want to talk to you—”

Suddenly, an explosion rocks the floor beneath your feet and Bucky grabs your arm to hold you steady. Your ears ring, but with him this close, breathing against your ear, you can hear every word he says.

“Of-fucking-course,” he spits. “The moment I get a second alone with you, where you can’t run, the bad guys blow up the building.”

“I can’t believe I get you like this,” he sighs into your ear, hands sliding up your waist. “So lucky, doll. All mine. You’re all mine and jus’ like this. Fuck.”

Bucky tugs you out of your stupor. “C’mon, we gotta move,” he says, and then he’s dragging you out of the hallway that’s already filling with smoke. Your lungs burn, nose tickling, eyes watering, but still he pulls you through and you hold onto his hand like it's a life preserver and the smoke you’re wading through is deep waters.

You don’t know where he’s leading you, but you don’t really care. Not with the way your chest is aching—and not just from breathing in carcinogens. From behind you, the sound of steel bending and breaking, glass shattering, echoes through the corridor. The stairwell doors, you presume. Bucky guides you into the nearest room with a broken curse.

“They busted through to the tenth floor,” Bucky speaks through his comms unit. “What are they after?”

“Fuck all,” Nat spits into your ear. A grunt is caught from her end. “Who cares?”

“Tony thinks they’re after Vision,” Steve says.

“Mind stone,” you immediately chime in, and Bucky glances back at you. “We can’t let them get any further than us.”

“Exactly. You and Buck need to hold them there. Tony’s got a jet on its way for Wanda and Vision but it won’t be here in time.”

“On it, Captain.”

By the time you sign off, Bucky’s already flipped the conference room tables on their sides and thrown the chairs in the corner haphazardly. He’s dragging two at a time—one in each hand—through the room and out the door.

“What are you doing?” you hiss.

He shoots you a glare and you rear back from the intensity. He’s never looked at you so sharply before.

“Barricading the elevator.” He tosses a table into the hallway leading to the exit like it weighs nothing. “There’s only one way up to the residential floors, ‘n I don’t plan on letting ‘em get this far, but if they do, I’m not risking it.”

“Good plan. I’ll go on ahead.”

“No,” he says, a command. “You’re gonna stay here. If anyone slips past me, you need to make sure they don’t get to the elevator.”

Your fingers clench into fists, but you can’t say anything. Bucky’s right—the tenth floor is the last common floor. The first stairwell, the one they just happily blew up, doesn’t even connect to the residential floors out of safety. The only way up is through the elevator or the auxiliary stairs.

And you’re the only thing standing between them and a straight shot up to Wanda and Vision.

“Fine,” you spit like its acid on your tongue.

Bucky turns, throwing you a smirk over his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he drawls, all Brooklyn, and then he vaults over a table and disappears into the smoke.

Your hips grind into his, finding pleasure in the way his clothed bulge provides friction on your heated core. It aches for his fingers, for his cock, for him. His hands cup your breasts, squeezing and molding them the way an artist molds the clay of his sculptures, and a moan escapes your parted, panting lips.

“Bucky, please, please,” you beg.

“Gonna be good for me?” His hands sear their shape into your thighs.

“Fuck you, Barnes,” you grit through your teeth. “I’m not your good fucking girl.”

It takes you much longer than it would’ve taken Bucky, but you manage to drag every table out of the conference room and into the elevator landing, creating a semi-stable barricade. It won’t hold for long, but it’ll hold, and at this point you can’t hope for much better.

Especially when Steve’s voice shouts over the comms channel, all staticky, “They brought backup! We’re pinned—they’re headed toward you guys, Buck!”

“Thanks, punk.” The sound of bullets reflecting off vibranium fills the channel and Bucky grunts. “I didn’t need more of ‘em.”

“Can’t handle your business?” Steve goads.

“Not when you send yours up with it.”

Another explosion rocks the compound, and this time, Bucky isn’t around to hold you steady. Your legs collapse under you and you tumble to the floor, rolling out of the way as a few of the chairs you’ve stacked up wobble and come crashing to the ground.

“Everyone okay?” Steve asks.

“Barely felt it,” Natasha responds.

“I think it happened closer to us,” you say. “Barnes?”

Three seconds tick by.

“Bucky?” you ask again, urgency flooding your voice.

Seven seconds.

“Bucky,” Steve calls more firmly. “Do you copy?”

On the tenth second, you’re sprinting, leaping over the hallway barricade and heading into the smoke in the same way you watched Bucky do only a few minutes earlier. Immediately you’re coughing, breathing too heavily to mitigate the thick, curling tendrils that choke you. Everything is hazy as if you’re drunk again, vision swimming with bouncing shapes you can hardly make out.

It burns. It burns like a heat you’ve never felt. An ache that doesn’t come with a cure. You need a salve that only exists in Bucky—a poultice made of the way his lips taste and the way his hands feel and the way his eyes look at you. There is nothing else that can heal you as he slides home, fit perfectly within you, thin air suffocating you.

You’ll never feel as good as you do right now ever again. He feels like he’s not supposed to be anywhere but inside you. Separating will be too painful. Bucky belongs as a part of you. Please please don’t let him leave.

Halfway through the corridor, you finally hear the telltale sounds of a firefight over the blaring alarm. It’s all guns firing and men shouting and metal, metal, metal. You rush forward, rifle locked in your hands, and when the smoke dissipates, there he is.

Strands of dark hair falling from his loose bun, face streaked with blood and sweat, eyes flashing dangerously black in the red light of the Compound alert. He’s got a bald man in a chokehold, trying to disarm him non-lethally, but you can hear the pounding of footsteps as more intruders file in from the stairwell. And as soon as the first one breaks through the smoky haze, eyes trained on Bucky, you don’t hesitate.

You shoot.

Bucky’s neck nearly snaps from how quick he turns to look at you. His nostrils flare as he quickly cracks his assailants head against the wall, knocking him unconscious, and if he had a chance to say anything before you were pulling the trigger again to fire into another enemy, you think he’d probably be insulting you.

“You never fuckin’ listen,” he growls, sending a vibranium fist into the stomach of a woman underdressed for the occasion.

“Not to you,” you answer. A grasp on your elbow sends you spinning on your heel, the butt of your rifle smashing into the temple of the dude who tried to sneak up behind you.

“Jesus.” He’s panting, brushing the stray hairs out of his face, as he looks at you. “Is it too much to ask for one day? Just one fuckin’ day for you to actually listen to me?”

Bucky lunges forward, and you almost flinch, but he reaches past you to grab the shoulders of a man waving a knife in your direction. His knee might not be made of metal, but it’s just as solid as he plants it in the intruder’s gut, then sends the poor guy flying with a kick of his boot.

“Yes,” you answer. Bucky whirls around to face you and suddenly he’s too close. Too close, too close, too close. His scent, earthen and salty and tangy with blood—but still a little sweet, like fresh linens—overwhelms you.

“Fuck,” he curses, but his hand finds the line of your jaw and ghosts over your skin, his fingers still warm with blood. “You’re lucky I—”

And then a bullet goes straight through his shoulder.

You scream his name.

You scream his name and it’s fucking rapture. It’s the end. Alpha and omega. You don’t know where you end and he begins. Are you heaven or is he hell? Your jaw goes slack and your knees buckle, weak. In the perfect denouement you collapse atop him as his fingers decorate your skin with black and blue bursts of color. He’s saying something, whispering something you can’t hear. It’s all fuzzy. You feel drunk on more than just the margaritas. You feel drunk on this plane of pleasure, heady and still simmering as you clench and flutter around him.

The concoction of your honey and his seed is sticky in the juncture where your hips meet his.

“Fuckin’ christ,” Bucky swears again, and then he grits his teeth and turns to unload a clip into the man who just shot him. “I’m so fuckin’ tired of getting interrupted.” He tosses the man, bleeding like a stuck pig, through the doorway and down into the stairwell. And then he whirls on you, the fabric around his shoulder stained dark, and his eyes are even darker.

Your mouth feels dry, the way he’s looking at you, and you swallow back the fear you taste on your tongue.

Because you’ve been in love with your best friend for years and he’s never once looked at you like this before. Or maybe he has. Maybe he did when he was fucking you, making you come apart while the world was spinning and the room felt too small. Maybe he looked at you like this and you can’t remember it, but now he’s looking at you like this anyway and it makes you feel like you’re a balloon that’s slipped off a child’s wrist, hurtling toward the sun.

You’re headed straight for the end, you know. You know it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and even though you expect it, and he says it with those big blue eyes of his staring into you like he’ll bring you out to sea and leave you stranded, your world splits down the middle, your axis cracked. “What happened was a mistake.”

The windows beside you burst in a shatter of prismatic light. Shards of glass rain down upon you, but Bucky is quick to wrap his arms around you and shield you from the storm. In the chaos, you can make out the sounds of ziplines and jangling metal, of guns cocking and boots thumping.

Is this the backup Steve said was coming? Or is this the backup’s backup?

Bucky launches into action without missing a beat and you follow him swiftly. But there’s a burning anger slipping through the sinew of your muscles that you can’t punch out, even as your fist connects with the corner of someone’s jaw. You’re heated. It’s seeping out of your pores with the sweat that slickens your skin.

“You know what?” you pant out, shoving your knee into a man’s crotch repeatedly. Bucky doesn’t turn to look, too busy grappling with a woman wielding a knife the length of his forearm.

“What?” he barks back, struggling for breath as he dodges his attacker’s strikes.

You kick your own assailant’s legs inward, interlocking your fingers behind his head to bring his face straight down into your knee, smashing his nose bloody.

“I know it was a mistake!” You shove the unconscious man away from you and turn to take on the next. “I didn’t need you to fucking remind me!”

You shove the muzzle of your rifle into a tac-suit and fire point-blank. Bucky disarms his opponent and throws her to the floor, tossing hair out of his eyes to glance at you in the heat of battle.

“So you didn’t want it?” he asks, a little quieter. You barely hear him over the war cry that pours from the mouth of the man who launches himself like a rocket at you. And fuck, you’re so distracted by the kicked puppy act Barnes is pulling that you go down, this body scrambling atop you, clawing at the bulletproof vest you wear.

You’re stuck between worrying about the fact that your only protective gear is about to be stripped from you and about why Bucky sounded so fucking sad. Because he’s your best friend. He’s been your best friend.

The two of you have been inseparable since you met. There hasn’t been a week you’ve gone without sharing a bed in some form or fashion with him, sans separate missions. You share your meals together. You share seats and snacks and quiet snickers during movie nights together. You share secrets—the ones you don’t even tell to Tasha on your worst days—together.

And you love him, but that’s the one thing you don’t share. The thing you’ll never share.

Bucky rips the intruder away from you and wastes no time in breaking his neck with a quick twist. He grabs you, hauling you off the floor and to your feet, his hands wrapped around your arms as he draws you close.

His eyes search yours, but you don’t know what he’s looking for.

“Did you want it?” he urges you, and when you open your mouth to speak, no words come to mind. “Tell me you wanted it,” he nearly begs.

“We were drunk,” you force out.

“I wanted it,” he admits, and it feels like someone just punched you. Kissed their knuckles and sent them straight for your lungs. Winded you. Blinded you. Fucking left you to bleed out and rot.

“We were drunk,” you repeat, harder, firmer, louder.

“I’ve always wanted it,” he says, shaking, heaving breaths. “You. I want you, sweetheart.”

Bucky’s eyes flash between blue and black as the siren blares overhead, its red lights pulsing, but you forget about it. You forget about everything except Bucky Barnes in this moment.

Because it’s always been him and he might have wanted it and you might have wanted him too but you were drunk and you can’t fucking remember it. You can’t remember him. You can’t remember anything about that night because you were drunk but he’s standing here saying that he wants you.

“What?”

He laughs, corners of his eyes crinkling in that way you sure do like.

“I want you, doll,” he says again. “I—”

You see the spray of bullets right before Bucky shoves you out of the way. What you don’t see is the butt of a machine gun hurtling toward the back of your head, and then you feel it—lights out.

“I love you,” you remember him saying.

“You’re drunk,” you remember answering.

“I love you still.”

The ceiling above you is familiar, the softness of the sheets on your back as you shift familiar, the light filtering through the bottom edge of the curtains from the window on the right familiar.

Even the man beside you, sleeping silently, hand clasped around yours like it’s a lifeline, is familiar. Everything is soft, a little fuzzy and glowing too bright as you blink awake, turning to look at the messy mop of dark locks that are spread against the sheets as a certain super soldier sits by your bed, hunched over at your side and dozing.

It’s familiar. So familiar it almost hurts.

Maybe it’s the rustle of the sheets or maybe he’s just attuned to your body, but the minute that you squeeze his hand and attempt to sit up, Bucky’s eyes snap open and he’s on his feet in an instant, hovering over you with a panicked gaze.

“Are you okay?” he asks, chewing his bottom lip as his eyes flit over you. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Are you—”

“Bucky,” you interrupt him, laughing. “I don’t even know what happened. Sit your pretty ass down and relax for a second.”

He freezes in place, hands floating above your body as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. And then he stiffens, curls back into himself, and sits down in the armchair he’s dragged over to your bedside. A hint of a smile plays at his lips.

“You think ‘m pretty?” he asks, all brilliantly.

You choose to ignore him.

“Why am I in my room and not in medbay? Are Wanda and Vision okay? What happened?”

“Everyone’s fine,” he says, and his thumb starts to rub soothing little circles into your hand, and that would usually be fine but today it’s making your stomach stir with a flutter. “We kicked bad guy butt and everything’s gettin’ cleaned up. It was an old cell of some organization—not HYDRA—that wanted the mind stone. But we took care of ‘em.”

Relief, like a cool shower of rain, floods your body. All the tension you were holding onto, muscles tense, seems to dissipate with only a few words. A happy sigh leaves your mouth and Bucky chuckles quietly, giving your hand another gentle squeeze.

“But why am I in here?” you ask again. “What happened? All I remember is getting shot at.”

He scratches the back of his head, eyes glancing at the floor. “It’s my fault,” he admits. “They started shooting ‘n I panicked—pushed you outta one hell and into another. The guy knocked you out with one blow.”

In the faint light that pours in from the window, Bucky’s eyes glaze over with a glassy look.

“Never saw you go down that fast before,” he whispers. “Not ever.”

The hold he has on your hand, cold metal and hot flesh against delicate skin, is tight and unyielding, but it grounds you in the same way Bucky’s always managed to ground you. It makes you feel like you won’t be able to fly away.

“Not your fault.” Your lips crack into a smile. “And I’m okay now, so it doesn’t matter. Did you bring me here?”

“I took you to the medbay first. But they cleared you after an hour or so, said you’d wake up soon, so I asked if I could bring you back to your room. I figured you would like waking up in your own room a lot better than a hospital room.”

“You were right,” you say. “You always are.”

Bucky stills. His whole body goes rigid and hard, seizing up, and he refuses to look at you. It’s not uncommon—Bucky shutting down like this when his emotions are too heavy for him to carry—but it’s not something you like to watch. You shake his hand a little, trying to bring him back. When he doesn’t respond, you shake him a little harder.

“Bucky?” you call, staring at him, waiting for him.

“I can’t—” he hesitates. You hear every breath he takes. “I kept getting interrupted, and now when I finally have the chance to say it, I can’t do it.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you lie, your voice barely a whisper.

“Yes we do,” he asserts, leaving no room for argument. “We need to talk about it because—because you think it was a mistake, and—”

“You said it was a mistake,” you interrupt.

Now, his eyes snap up to yours, and once again you’re drunk and drowning in those baby blues. Now, you remember what he looked like underneath you, tongue licking up the sweat that crested in the hollow of his throat. Now, you remember what his hands felt like as they covered your naked body, climbing up your skin like ivy climbs toward the heavens, clinging and caressing and searing memories into the way he molded your flesh underneath his strong fingers.

“It was a mistake to sleep with you when we were drunk,” he grits through clenched teeth, a shadow of shame glancing over his face. “It was a mistake to do anything drunk, and I’m sorry. It ain’t right. I knew it wasn’t right but fuck, I…”

“You love me too,” you remember him saying, mouthing the words into the underside of your breast.

“I’m drunk,” you remember telling him. “But I love you. I love you too.”

“I thought it was the only shot I’d ever get with you. And I was wasted, and that ain’t an excuse.” Bucky’s eyes fall to the bed where your hand lay intertwined with his. “I don’t want you to forgive me, sweetheart. Don’t know how you could. ‘N it’s selfish of me, but I’m so afraid of losin’ you.”

“You’re not gonna lose me,” you say quickly, rampantly, trying desperately to form the feelings churning your stomach into words. “Bucky, we’re both responsible. We were both drunk. Neither of us could… We couldn’t say yes and mean it.”

His brow furrows, but his grip doesn’t waiver. “S’not your job, it’s mine, sweetheart. I’m supposed to make sure that everything is right. That you want it.”

“No,” you say, voice gone soft. “It’s both of our jobs to make sure we both want it. I know it was a lot different in the 40s, but we both have to consent and we both have to make sure the other can consent. And we were drunk and we shouldn’t have. But you didn’t hurt me, okay?”

He swallows. “I didn’t?”

You shake your head. “No, you didn’t. ‘Cause I took advantage of you as much as you took advantage of me. I wanted it too. I’ve been in—”

In a flash, Bucky’s vibranium hand is pressed against your lips, metal kissing skin. Your eyes go wide, looking up at him, but his brow is wrinkled and his own eyes are panicked.

“No,” he says in a breath. “No way, doll. I’ve been interrupted every time I’ve tried to say it, and I’m not going to let you beat me to it.”

Bucky takes his hand from where it covers your mouth and drags his fingers softly down your cheek, cupping your jaw and letting his metal thumb caress your face. It reminds you of how he held you right in the middle of battle, looking at you like he’s looking at you right now, and your heart tightens impossibly.

“I love you,” he says. “I’ve loved you since we met, I think. And I’ve wanted you since then too. And I didn’t want—I’m sorry that I fucked up. I’ll never fuckin’ forgive myself for that, sweetheart. But I love you, and I meant it when I said it that night and I mean it now.”

A tear slips down the planes of your face, catching on vibranium fingers. Selfishly, you’re glad that those memories are hazy, like colorless film and grainy television sets and fuzzy screens. It means that in the here and now, with his face right before yours and his eyes like sapphire starlight and his hair a little unkempt, you can remember him like this. The smell of his skin, like ocean breeze. The coolness of his smooth palm, pinky resting against the side of your neck. The way he breathes, heavy and nervous, like he isn’t a recovering super soldier, but just a man from the 40s who loves his first dame.

“We’ll have to have a redo,” you tell him, biting your lip to hide your grin.

Buck blinks. “A redo?”

Your hand slides up his chest, following the line of his sternum and brushing past the nearly-healed wound from where he was shot, over his clavicle to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers threading in the loose strands of his hair.

“Well the first time didn’t count, right? So we need a redo. I want to tell you that I love you and not blame it on the alcohol.”

It takes a minute, but very slowly, Bucky’s mouth breaks into a toothy grin. His eyes light up the whole room.

“That right, sweetheart?” he asks, all charming and boyish, leaning closer until his nose is just brushing yours. His breath doesn’t smell like booze. This is real, and this means something, and Bucky Barnes is in love with you the way you’re in love with him. He must be, you think, with the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only star in the night sky.

“That’s right,” you say, a laugh on the end of your tongue that Bucky swallows when his mouth lands on yours. And this time, you’ll remember.

This time, you’ll remember how plush his lips are against yours, how the chapped skin feels against yours as his mouth opens yours and his tongue dips inside to taste the giggles slipping out of your throat. Your hand knots in his hair, urging him closer, needing to have him pressed against you in case he tries to break away and run. In case this isn’t real, born of hazy drunken memories that flash like lightning bugs in your mind.

But he doesn’t taste drunk, and he doesn’t move like he’s drunk, and he pulls away with a heady groan as your tongue tangles with his. Bucky hovers above you, panting, his own hand moving to cup the back of your head, and that’s how you know this is real.

You know it’s real because a twinge of pain shoots through your skull and a gasp escapes the kiss-swollen lips Bucky just left behind.

He lets go immediately, terrified. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Shit, sweetheart, I’m so fuckin’ sorry, so bad at this, always fuckin’ it up.”

“It’s fine,” you say, wincing. “It’s not your fault. I got pistol-whipped in the back of the head and it hurts like a bitch.”

“Shoulda listened to me,” he says without thinking, then freezes, staring at you like a deer caught in a pair of headlights and you’re speeding straight for him and you aren’t stepping on the brake. “Sorry.”

“You’re awful.” You frown at him. “I’m injured and you’re being awful to me.”

Bucky laughs and falls to the bed beside you with a bounce of the mattress, throwing his flesh arm around your waist and pulling you gently into his body. He cradles you here, like you’re fragile, but it’s soft and he’s soft and he’s humming happily, so you let him. It’s a familiar position—to be in Bucky’s arms.

What’s not familiar is the way his nose nudges against your jaw, asking you to bare your neck to him as he smatters tiny kisses over your throat.

“You love me,” he whispers. You can feel him smiling against your skin.

“Well I’m not drunk, y’know,” you say.

“But you love me.”

You turn your head to look at him. He looks shy, hiding his face in the crook of your shoulder. When your hand falls upon his chest you can feel how fast his heart is beating, how it hammers in his ribcage. Vaguely, you wonder if it could break his bones from how hard it beats for you.

“I love you,” you admit, dragging your fingers down his chest. “I want you forever.”

He grins. “Good thing I ain’t plannin’ on leavin’ anytime soon, sweetheart.”

there's nothing I love more than a good ol' movie night with friends, so I figured, why not have one for our sleepover?? 💓

🎬 - IMBD

who doesn't watch a movie and wonder where you know that actor from? send me a 🎬 and a show, movie, universe, etc. and I'll cast my mutuals as the characters!

💖 - rom-com

fuck, I love a good romantic comedy! send me a 💖, along with a blurb about yourself and your preferences, and I'll ship you with a MCU character!

✍️ - synopsis

who doesn't read the netflix description before picking out the movie? send me a ✍️ along with a character and a concept, and I'll write a short drabble or headcanon!

😈 - rated R

good ol' fuck, marry, kill! don't watch this one with your parents, babe. send me a 😈 and three characters, and you know the rest.

🍿 - large movie theater popcorn

oh, we got money, honey! (just kidding, we popped these kernels at home!) there's plenty to share—send me a 🍿 and I'll read one of your fics and reblog it with a comment!

🐟 - swedish fish

who doesn't love those little dummies or fishing for compliments?? send me a 🐟, and I'll give you a compliment!

🍫 - snickers bar

for when you want something sweet—send me a 🍫, and I'll handwrite you a letter (and even mail it to you, if you want)! mutuals only for this one, please!

🧻 - what'd I miss while I was in the bathroom?

curious about something? send me a 🧻, and ask me literally anything you want to know!