drunk on you
Pairing: Bucky x fem!reader
Summary: You are drunk from alcohol and he’s drunk on you (you drink for the first time, and he’s there for you at every turn)
Word count: 4.2K
Warnings: fluff, mildly suggestive themes, alcohol consumption, drunk!reader, MDNI, couple mentions of reader being small and Bucky being big, no mention of y/n, pet names (doll, baby, sweetheart). Imk if i've missed anything.
A/N: no age gap mentioned. reader just hasn’t had alcohol before. kinda self-indulgent fic, and I haven’t gotten drunk before, so i’m sorry if it’s poorly depicted 😭
You’ve never been much of a drinker. Well, maybe except for that one shot you had back in college. It sounds like a million years ago now. Never been one to tip over the line, you haven’t really tried drinking. But curiosity has been nudging at you for a while. Not the reckless kind, but more like wanting to understand what everyone else seems to find so natural. You want to try it, but you also know yourself. You know how sensitive you are, how much you hate feeling out of control. Which is why, when the thought finally makes it from your head to your lips, it comes out soft and cautious.
“Bucky?”
He looks up from the couch, a book balanced on his hand. The overhead light throws enough shine on the vibranium for it to glint. His brows lift as if he’s waiting, because he knows that tone. He can tell when you’re carrying something delicate and you need him to handle it with care.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” His voice is patient, already steadying you before you’ve even said a thing.
You curl your fingers into the hem of your shirt, fiddling like you always do when you’re nervous. “Can I… ask you something? And you promise not to laugh?”
The book closes with a quiet thump. He sets it aside without hesitation and leans forwards, like nothing else matters but you. “Not a chance in hell I’d laugh at you. Tell me.”
That makes it a little easier, but your throat still feels tight. “I was wondering if… I could maybe… try drinking. Like…. not going crazy or anything. Just… I’ve never done it before.”
For a split second his expression doesn’t change, and then the softest smile spreads across his mouth. His eyes look at you like you’d just told him you wanted to learn how to ride a bike and he can already see you pedaling down the street.
“Sweetheart, you don’t need my permission for that,” he says. “But I’m glad you told me.”
Your shoulders slump with relief, but then another wave of nerves creeps in. It’s one thing to say you want to try. It’s another thing to actually do it. “Could you… be with me when I try? Just in case I hate it. Or it makes me feel weird.”
Something closely resembling protectiveness flickers behind his eyes. Like he’s already preparing himself to take care of you, like your safety has become the mission briefing.
“Of course I’ll be there,” he says immediately. “I wouldn’t let you try it alone anyway.” His hand reaches out, brushing your knee. “You’re safe, doll. We’ll do it here, just us. No pressure.”
You feel him scooting closer to you, his warmth enveloping you in an embrace, like a comforter or a warm cup of cacao on a rainy day. The knot in your chest loosens. You nod, and his thumb rubs lightly over your jeans, like he’s sealing the promise.
Later that evening, he sets the stage with the kind of thoughtful precision that makes you want to bury your face against his shoulder. The kitchen counter becomes a little tasting bar. He doesn’t pull out the hard stuff first, no whiskey or vodka in sight. Instead there are a couple of bottles of fruity ciders, a light beer, and one small bottle of something pink and sparkling that you suspect he bought just for you.
He watches you take it all in with wide eyes. Your gaze captures them in a way you look at a spread of desserts you’re not sure you’re allowed to touch.
“You don’t have to finish anything,” he says firmly, catching the nervous twitch in your hands. “This isn’t about proving anything. We’ll start easy. I figured something sweet, low alcohol. Somethin’ that won’t hit too hard. Just a little taste.”
You hover at the edge of the counter like you’re about to step into a pool. “What if I hate it?”
“Then we stop. I’ll drink it, and we’ll try something else.” He shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Or we’ll pour it all down the sink and order dessert instead. No rules here.”
His calm makes it possible to laugh, a quick breathy sound that helps unknot your stomach. “Okay. Dessert sounds like a good backup plan.”
He chuckles, reaching for the pink bottle. “Thought you’d say that.” The cap twists off with a hiss, and he pours a little into a glass. The liquid fizzes prettily, almost too inviting. “Here. Just a sip. Think of it like sparkling juice.”
You take the glass, fingers brushing against his. He stays close, leaning one hip against the counter, eyes steady on you but not pressuring. The first sip is tentative, a dip of your lips against the rim. The taste is sweet, with only the tiniest bite of alcohol at the end.
You blink. “That’s… not bad.”
The grin that spreads across his face is immediate and proud. “See? Easy.”
You take another, braver sip, tad faster than the one before. This time the bubbles tickle your throat, and you cough a little. But it makes you giggle instead of panic. Bucky’s hand is already there, rubbing your back in circles, letting you know he’s got you.
“Slow down, baby. It catches up quick.”
You nod, setting the glass down. “It tastes like candy.”
“That’s the trick,” he says with a smirk. “They make the first one sweet so you think it’s all fun and games. Then suddenly you’re trying to convince me you can definitely do a backflip off the couch.”
You burst out laughing at the image, shoulders shaking. “I’d never do that.”
He raises a brow, playful. “Not yet, maybe. Give it two more sips.”
His words make everything feel lighter, like this isn’t some monumental moment but just another piece of life you’re sharing with him. And it is. That’s what makes it safe. You take another sip, this time letting it linger on your tongue, and you realize part of why you wanted this: not for the drink itself, but for the experience of trying something new with him watching over you.
When you glance up, he’s already looking at you like he knows that. The tenderness in his eyes makes your stomach flip harder than the alcohol ever could.
“Doing okay?” he asks softly.
“Yeah,” you whisper, and it’s the truth. Him being here with you makes you feel warm from the inside. Like he’s there to catch you if you fall.
You’ve only had a few sips, but there’s already a looseness to your body that wasn’t there before. You tilt the glass, watching the sparkle catch the kitchen light, and then you look up at Bucky with a grin that’s just a little too wide to be entirely sober.
“This is… fun,” you declare, your voice carrying a new rhythm. Not entirely sloppy, just a little lighter on the sides.
Bucky’s leaning back against the counter, watching you with something dangerously close to fond awe. He’d braced himself for worry. He was half convinced you’d spit out the first sip, wrinkle your nose, and declare the whole experiment a failure. But you’re glowing. And it makes his chest ache in that way he still hasn’t gotten used to, the good kind. Like his ribcage is too small for how much he cares about you.
“You’re cute,” he murmurs mostly to himself, but your ears pick it up anyway.
Your eyes widen, and you laugh into the rim of the glass. “You can’t just say that. Not when I’m trying to be serious.”
“Serious about what?” He pushes off the counter, tilting his head like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“About…” You pause, searching for the word. The pause stretches, your brow furrowing in exaggerated concentration until you giggle at your own struggle. “About… research.” You lift the glass like it’s some kind of evidence. “For science.”
Bucky barks out a laugh. It’s one of those low, chest-deep ones that he doesn’t bother hiding around you. “Science, huh? Should I be taking notes?”
You nod solemnly, then ruin the effect by hiccupping right after. Your hand flies to your mouth, your eyes are wide in mock horror. Bucky has to brace himself against the counter again because you’re too much. You’re adorable and clumsy and brave all at once, and he’s not sure his heart can take it.
“Careful there, doll,” he says, still chuckling. “That’s the carbonation talking.”
“Carbonation.” You try the word out slowly, as if it’s a complicated spell.
Car-bo-na-tion.
Your tongue trips slightly on the syllables. You laugh again, leaning forward like you’re sharing a secret. “That’s a funny word. Say it.”
He humors you, because of course he does. “Carbonation.”
The word leaves his mouth and you respond by clapping. Like you’re happy he’s obliging. “See? Funny.”
He shakes his head, but he’s grinning now. He pours a finger more of the sparkling pink stuff into your glass. You’re quick to notice, and narrow your eyes with playful suspicion.
“You’re trying to get me drunk,” you accuse, though it is ruined by the way your lips twitch into a smile.
“Not a chance,” he says, calm as ever. “You’d need a whole lot more than this little bottle. I’m just topping you off.”
You take another sip, and set the glass down with more force than you intended. Some of it sloshes over the side. With a gasp, you reach for a napkin. Before your fingers could fumble, before you could even reach the surface, his hand was there. Steady. Already wiping the mess. Like he was making sure that you did none of the work but had all the fun.
“Got it,” he murmurs, brushing past your knuckles.
Your cheeks are warm, and you’re not sure if it’s the drink or the way he always swoops in without hesitation. You glance up at him, and for the first time tonight your boldness comes less from liquid courage and more from the way his eyes soften when they meet yours.
“You’re really nice to me,” your voice is softer, the edges blurring like your thoughts are sliding together.
The words catch him off guard. He looks at you like he might need to memorize this exact moment—the shy sweetness in your drunken honesty, the faint pink blooming in your cheeks.
“‘Course I am,” he says eventually, gently. “You deserve that. More than anyone.”
You hum happily at the answer, leaning your cheek into your palm. “I like you here. Sitting with me.”
It was simply the truth. But it nearly undoes him. He swallows hard, masking it with a crooked smile. “I like being here with you, too.” And god wasn’t it the truth? To be here. To be with you.
You seem satisfied with that, so satisfied in fact that your hand drifts across the counter, fingertips brushing the fabric of his t-shirt near his hip. It’s barely a touch, casual in your mind. But to him it’s enough to light his nerves on fire. He neither moves nor breathes too deep, afraid to scare off the gentle way you’re reaching for him without thinking.
The alcohol is loosening your tongue as much as your muscles now. You lean closer, conspiratorial. “You know… you’re adorable.”
Bucky feels the laugh rise in his chest, helpless. “You’re drunk already?”
“I’m not drunk.” You pout, and he looks at you like he needs to kiss that pout off your face. “Just… honest.”
It’s true. You’re not drunk. A little loose, sure, but not lost in it. Which makes it all the sweeter, because this is you. Just you, unguarded and silly and so full of affection you’re usually shy to hand out in unmeasured doses.
He shakes his head again, warmth crawling through him. “If this is what happens when you drink, I think I’m in trouble.”
“Trouble?” You latch onto the word, your smile turning mischievous. “Am I trouble?”
The gleam in your eyes nearly floors him. He’s tempted to kiss you right there, to scoop you off the stool and carry you to the couch. But he reins himself in. This night isn’t about him. It’s about you feeling safe and cared for, free to explore without fear. So he just leans closer, lowering his voice.
“The sweetest kind.”
You giggle at that, your hand moving to cover the sound. The glass sits mostly empty in front of you, but your laughter fills the room instead, light and unselfconscious.
Minutes pass like that, with you experimenting. Another sip here, another exaggerated attempt at pronouncing “fermentation” there. You tease him about being a “serious bartender” when he opens the cider next, and he plays along, bowing with a ridiculous flourish before sliding the glass toward you. The taste surprises you again, more tangy, less candy-sweet, and you wrinkle your nose.
“Not as fun,” you announce, sliding the glass back toward him. “You drink that one.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says smoothly, taking a sip to show you he will. The look you give him after—part adoring, part smug—burns itself into his memory.
By the time you’ve gone back to the sparkling pink, you’re slurring just enough that your words are softer. As though language has turned into a fluffy pillow. Your body leans toward him instinctively, elbow brushing his arm. And every touch feels uncalculated. For someone who’s so deliberately careful about her actions, you’re now loose on the edges.
Bucky watches it all, his heart aching in the best way. He sees the way you’re letting go, trusting the safety net of his presence. Loving you has been the easiest thing he’s ever done, and there’s nothing more natural to him than be your anchor. If only you knew that, maybe you wouldn’t have been so nervous to ask him in the first place.
You lift your head suddenly, eyes wide with some revelation. “Bucky?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“I’m… kinda tipsy.” You whisper it like a confession, then break into a smile that could melt steel. “And it’s nice.”
He chuckles, like you’d just told him the most guarded secret, brushing his knuckles against your knee. “Good. Then we’re doing this right.”
As you giggle again, leaning into his shoulder for balance, his arms come around to hold you. He’s never seen anything sweeter than you. There’s nothing more you could give than your trust. Trust to hold you steady as you try something new. His eyes track your every move, like he’s cataloguing everything into his brain, a memory he’ll want to keep forever.
“What if I drink more?”
His brow arches, suspicion and amusement blending like cream in coffee. “More? You already look like you’re two seconds away from serenading me, baby.”
“I’d be a good singer,” you insist, though you’re giggling too much to sound convincing. Your fingers wriggle free as you reach for the glass again, stubborn as ever, and take another sip.
“Careful,” he says, his voice dipping lower like he’s wrapping you in cotton. “It’ll sneak up on you.”
“Maybe I want it to.” The words slip out sing-song.
He sighs the sigh of a man who knows he won’t win this fight, but might as well enjoy the view. He doesn’t take the glass. Instead, he steps down from the stool, offers you a hand like you’re about to walk the red carpet. “C’mon. Couch time. Before you fall off that thing.”
You stumble only slightly when you follow him, which earns you a steadying arm around your waist.
“I’m not falling,” you protest, even as you lean into his grip. “You’re just really big, and I’m… small.”
That pulls a laugh from him. “That’s some flawless logic, sweetheart.”
By the time you land on the couch like a sack of laughter and soft limbs, you’re hiccupping between giggles. He sinks down beside you, pulls you close like it’s second nature, thumb tracing lazy circles on your shoulder like your very own human security blanket.
Your body is soft against him, warm and heavy with the kind of trust that always undoes Bucky in ways nothing else ever could. The drink blurs your usual shyness, and you stare at his jawline like it was a wonder of the world. If it isn’t already, it definitely should be. “You’re really handsome, you know that?”
His head drops back in laughter, but slight heat trails up his cheeks, your words landing with the intended effect. “You’re drunk, baby.”
“I’m not drunk,” you insist on making that clear, but you poke his jaw with a clumsy finger. “I’m observant.”
“Observant, huh?” He catches your hand, pressing kisses into each of your knuckles. “Then what else you observin’?”
Your mouth opens, words tripping out without filter. “That your mouth’s really nice. Like… distractingly nice. And your hands are… so big.” You stared down at the one holding yours like it was new information. “They make me feel tiny.”
You don’t give him enough time to recover from the attack you just did. His brain draws blanks as you nuzzle closer to him, voice muffled but clear nonetheless. “You’re my favorite thing.”
Something swells in his chest. He’d been through wars, survived the impossible, carried enough ghosts to fill a city. And here you are, tipsy and tangled against him, declaring him your favorite thing like it was a simple fact. He lowers his lips to your hair, whispering, “You’re mine too, sweetheart.”
You lean up and brush your lips against his cheek, an attempt to reach his mouth failing.
“Was that supposed to be a kiss?” he teases, though his voice comes out hoarse.
You giggle, hiding your face in his chest. “Maybe.”
He wraps his arms fully around you, laughter shaking against your ear. “You’re somethin’ else, doll.”
You suddenly feel that the couch isn’t enough. You need to be as close to him as possible, like being next to him alone is not enough now. You shift and squirm until you finally climb into his lap. His arms never leave your skin, and now that you’re where you want to be, you sigh. A soft, breathy sound showing that it’s the only place for you to be.
Bucky is fighting a different battle now. You’re pliant, and soft, and right over his lap. His body hasn’t received the memo that you’re drunk. It reacts in the same way it does when you’re on him. He’s already hard and it’s torture.
The sound of your content little hums is enough to keep him holding his breath, waiting for you to relax fully. Praying you’ll just let yourself sink into sleep before he loses the war raging in his own body.
But then you shift. It isn’t much at first. Just your head lifting, eyes slightly unfocused as you blink at him like you’re trying to figure out what he’s made of. Then your mouth curves into a slow, syrupy smile that spells trouble before you even move again.
“Bucky…” you whisper, your voice sweet and slippery from the alcohol.
He answers automatically. “Yeah, baby?”
You lean forward, closing the tiny distance to press your lips against his. It isn’t a peck or the clumsy press of tipsy affection. No. You kiss him. Somehow finally finding his lips. You kiss him properly. Mouth moving against his with more insistence than you probably realize, your soft little sigh warming his lips.
Bucky nearly sees stars.
It isn’t that you haven’t kissed him like this before. You’ve done plenty more than that, over and over. But this time it feels like torture disguised as paradise. His body is already straining against his jeans, already screaming at him from the second you landed on his lap. Now you’re adding the kind of kiss that makes his pulse jump like a hammer in his throat. And he knows he’s one second away from losing the careful control he’s clinging to.
He kisses you back, because he can’t not. But it’s cautious and gentle. His lips move against yours like he’s handling spun glass. You, on the other hand, are not careful. You press harder, fingers tangling in the back of his hair, little whines leaving your throat that punch holes in his restraint.
“Doll…” His voice comes out rough when he manages to pull back just an inch, breathing hard. “We can’t.”
You pout, though the effect is softened by the way you immediately lean in to catch his mouth again. “Why not?” It comes out slightly slurred, nevertheless insistent. “You’re so warm.”
His laugh is a groan caught in his throat. “That’s not the problem.”
You don’t let him explain. Your mouth finds his again, needy and sweet, and your hips wiggle slightly as you resettle in his lap. That movement nearly kills him. He grips your waist tighter than intended, not to encourage but to keep you still. Because one more shift like that and he’s gone.
His brain chants rules like a mantra. She’s tipsy. She asked for safety. This isn’t about you. Don’t screw it up.
But then your lips trail down to his jaw, your kisses turning sloppy and adoring. “You smell so good,” you mumble against his skin.
Bucky tips his head back and shuts his eyes, every cell in his body fighting. His fists clench in your shirt to stop his hands from wandering anywhere they shouldn’t. His body is practically begging for release, but his heart keeps beating to one thought: protect her.
“Sweetheart,” he tries again, his voice strangled, “you’re makin’ this real hard for me.”
You lift your head, eyes glassy but mischievous, like you know exactly what you’re doing. “Literally.” You glance down at his erection, then back up at him, dissolving into a fit of giggles at your own joke.
Very funny.
Bucky groans, letting his head fall back against the couch. “This is some kind of test, isn’t it? Punishment for every sin I ever committed.”
You don’t answer. Instead, you capture his lips again, messy and eager. Like you’re just trying to drown out his protests with affection. And the worst part? It’s working. His mouth opens under yours before he can stop it, his tongue brushing against yours, and the sound you make sends a shock down his spine so sharp it almost buckles him.
His body wants. God, does it want. But inside his chest, his heart is thundering. It knows better. Knows that the right thing is holding back, no matter how much it feels like self-destruction.
He tears his mouth away with effort, breathing like he’s run five miles. His hands are still on your waist, steadying you, keeping you from grinding down on him like your instincts clearly want. “Sweetheart, listen. I love you too much to take advantage when you’ve had your first drink tonight. Tomorrow, yes. Every night after, absolutely. But not now, baby. Not tonight.”
You blink at him, lips swollen from kissing, and cheeks flushed. Then you sigh, dropping your head to his chest in a dramatic collapse. “You’re no fun,” you mumble, though your voice is thick with affection more than annoyance.
He huffs a laugh, relief breaking through the ache. “No fun is exactly what you need right now.”
Your arms curl tighter around his neck, body still molded to his. “But you’re warm. And comfy. And kissy.”
That makes him snort despite himself. “Kissy?”
You nod solemnly against his shirt, as if you’ve coined the most accurate word in history. “Very kissy.”
He shakes his head, lips quirking as he presses a kiss to your hairline. “That’s not gonna convince me, doll.”
But it almost does. God help him, it almost does. Because every second you’re pressed against him, lips still brushing his throat like you can’t bear to stop, his body is howling for more. Yet every time he looks down at you, sees your sleepy smile and glassy eyes, the ache in his chest overtakes the ache between his legs.
So he sits there, letting you pepper clumsy kisses along his jaw while he chuckles and groans in equal measure. He’s now caught between the sweetest torture and the firm conviction that keeping you safe matters more than anything his body craves. But he wouldn’t trade it for the world. Having his girl on his lap, so trusting, means the most to him.
By the time your kisses slow, he knows he’s won the battle. You’re drifting, sliding toward the hazy sleep that follows the first glow of alcohol. He holds you steady in his lap, still hard as stone, but calmer now. Because he’s done the one thing that matters most: he’s protected your trust.
And when your final mumble against his neck is, “My kissy boy,” followed by a soft giggle before sleep takes you, he thinks maybe he doesn’t mind the torture after all. Because nothing has ever felt better than you safe and happy in his arms.
cries in soft hrs
