#bucky post

Summary: (Bucky x reader) a power outage during a storm leads to awkward situations that you couldn’t be more grateful for.

Warnings: swearing & cute, awkward fluff. Lots of it. Also not my best writing.

A/N: SO to celebrate 200 followers (ohmygoshthankyou) I decided to write my first non-Loki fic! Hope you guys like it and if you’re just here for Loki, I’ve got plenty more coming ;) this is not anywhere close to good writing, but hope you enjoy anyways!

Thank you so much for reading!!!

Masterlist

“SHIT!”

There was a loud crash somewhere to your left, followed by a thud, “OW,” and shattering glass.

Silence.

“I’m ok!”

Another silent moment passed.

“Fucking power outage,” he grumbled as an afterthought.

You snorted with laughter, only imagining the mess he had just created.

“Language!! I’m in here too, don’t kill yourself,” you called out, following the wall through the dark towards Bucky’s voice.

This had to be the worst power outage of the season, if it was able to knock out the electricity to the entire Avengers compound. You didn’t even know that was possible. But after a crash of thunder bigger than any you had even seen Thor conjure, the lights had flickered once, twice, then shut off completely.

“Don't come in here, Y/N. There’s glass everywhere.” You heard Bucky pause. “I think. I can’t really see.”

You groaned as you rammed your shin into the edge of a bench, stopping your trek towards his voice. “Why did we have to be underground for this? There’s natural light upstairs, but nope, just our luck. Stuck in the pitch black.”

The two of you found yourselves in the compound’s underground gym during this outage. You had come down to fetch the pair of shoes left from that morning, and had run into Bucky who was rummaging around the wet bar in desperate need of a water bottle after pummelling what appeared to be well over ten punching bags. You had grabbed your shoes and may have stopped in the entryway to admire the sweaty super soldier, with his hair plastered to his forehead and thin tank top doing little to contain his bulging muscles.

He hadn’t noticed your presence yet, so you had awkwardly coughed to let him know he wasn’t alone.

Unfortunately, the exact moment you coughed, the power went out. Bucky, who was halfway in the fridge reaching for a water hiding in the back corner, had jumped and whacked his head against the edge of the fridge.

Leading to now. “SHIT!”

Now, you decided it was safest to just stay put rather than run into something else in the dark.

“I’ve got shoes on, I’ll come find you. You stay,” Bucky's voice sounded a little closer.

You shifted on your feet as you waited, your heart racing a little faster. It was safe to say that you had developed a bit of a crush on the super soldier, and every time you were alone with him made you awkward and jittery beyond belief.

Yeah, ok, it was more than a crush. Safer to say you were head over heels for the guy.

You could hear him shuffling his way towards to you, but still couldn’t see anything.

“Marco,” you called out without thinking.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Marco Polo? A pool game? What the hell is wrong with you?

Bucky laughed, sounding closer to you. “What? Who’s Marco?”

You silently screamed at yourself, slapping a hand to your forehead. “Uh, sorry. He’s no one, it’s a game. I was… making a joke?”

Fantastic. That went well.

You wanted to punch yourself in the face. Thank god he couldn’t see how bright red your face was.

He chuckled, but you had a feeling it was more out of pity than humor, which only made you feel worse.

“What’s the game?” Bucky’s voice cut through the darkness, silky and smooth and… mmm. Stop it.

You cleared your throat. And hopefully your mind.

“Um… one person closes their eyes and tries to find the other people. They can only say Marco, and everyone else responds with Polo, so that they can hear where the other people are.”

There was another heavy thud, followed by a painfully hissed “oh fuck me.”

You bit your lip at his words.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Excuse me?”

Holy shit. Did you say that out loud?

“I-uh, nothing. Marco!”

STUPID. StuPID.

Bucky chuckled again, making your face flush even deeper red. “If you say so… Polo?” He answered, moving through the darkness.

“Marco,” you called again.

“Polo.”

“Marco...”

“Polo…”

“Maaarco-oh!”

His hand connected with your waist, blindly patting up your side until he reached your face, fingers brushing over your cheek.

You barely caught yourself from falling over in shock. “Yep, it’s me,” you croaked, voice catching in your throat.

“Oh. There you are. Sorry sweetheart.”

He took one more step towards you, but must have gotten his foot stuck on something hiding in the dark, because the next thing you knew was your back hitting the floor and a heavy weight falling on your stomach.

You let out a shriek as you scrambled to get up, but Bucky had fallen right on top of you.

Oh my god.

His face, his beautiful, sculpted face, was hovering right over yours, his metal arm whirring next to your head as it adjusted to hold him above you.

You could feel his breath tickling your ear as he let out a hearty laugh.

“Hello there,” he chuckled, trying to make light of the situation. “This is surprisingly not the weirdest fall I’ve experienced.”

He pushed himself off you, disappearing back into the darkness.

Sitting up with a giggle, you blindly reached out a hand in front of you. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Hey, don’t go too far, I literally cannot see anything.”

You could hear Bucky let out an exasperated sigh. “You apologise too much. I was the one who fell on you.”

“Oh, uh, sorry,” you responded with a deep blush.

“Seriously?” Bucky was laughing.

You moved your hand about, hoping to find his arm to at least know where he was. Instead your hand connected with something firm and slightly scratchy. Shit. That’s his face.

You heard him inhale sharply at the contact, making you recoil, apologising profusely.

“I-I’m so sorry! Can we just find the door and leave?” You hurried to stand up, knocking something over in the process, but a cold, metal hand grabbed your arm before you could get too far.

“There you go apologising again,” Bucky grumbled jokingly, pulling you back down to the ground. He cradled your face in his hands. “I’m right here, if you can’t tell. Right in front of you.”

Oh my god why is his hand so lovely? So gentle and smooth and rough all at the same time…

“You’re going to kill yourself if you try to walk around,” he continued. “I love you, Y/N, but you have to be one of most unbalanced people I know.”

Hearing him say ‘I love you’ made you bite your lip to hide a smile, even if the joking tone of voice was obvious.

“Sorry…” you mumbled with a sheepish laugh.

Bucky let out a groan. “I swear to god, Y/N, if you apologise one more time, I’m going to have to shut you up myself.”

You choked. “W-what does that mean?!”

He didn’t mean it like that, he didn’t mean it like that…

Feeling him move closer, you let out a nervous laugh. “Sure wish the lights were on, heh…”

Stupid brain. Saying stupid things. Ugh.

“They can stay off,” he hummed, trailing a hand up you arm. “I think we can find each other.”

You shifted your weight, involuntarily leaning into his touch, but your hand came in contact with a water bottle, knocking it over and spilling its contents all over the floor around you.

“Shit. I’m sorr-” you began, but before the apology left your mouth, Bucky's hand was holding your chin, pulling your lips against his.

There was no air left in your lungs as your eyes fluttered shut. The kiss was over before the initial shock had passed, leaving you frozen in place as Bucky pulled away.

“Sorry, doll. Couldn’t resist,” he murmured with a grin.

Ohhh my goodness. Did that really just happen?

Shaking yourself out of your trance, you lunged forward, knocking Bucky over as you threw your arms around his neck.

“The only thing you should apologise for is for taking so long to do that,” you laughed breathlessly, then pulled him back into a second kiss.

Moments passed, magical moments in the dark, unspoken feelings finally coming to light. After a few more minutes of making out, Bucky pulled away and whispered “want to get out of here, doll? We’ve been in here a while, the others might get suspicious.”

You grabbed his hand and let him help you up, your other hand out to feel for the wall. He carefully guided you along the wall through the dark until reaching the door, pulling it open.

You blinked in surprise as light flooded your eyes, and Bucky threw up the hand not holding yours to shield his eyes.

Wait, what?

Sam Wilson, that fucking pigeon, was clapping and whooping at the top of his lungs. “I CALLED IT! It’s about damn time!”

Uh oh.

Standing around you were the rest of the Avengers, all cheering and looking at you and Bucky’s intertwined hands as you turned redder and redder by the second. Steve came up to Bucky laughing, clapping him on the shoulder.

Sam: Fuck you man.

Bucky: What did I do?

Sam: You’re breathing.

Bucky: You kind of need that to live dumbass!

~this is kinda a companion to the first story I wrote about Stucky (Thoughts), told from Steve’s POV. it expands the rooftop scene, and gives some insight into what Steve was feeling this whole time~

Steve sits in the empty train compartment. It’s cold, bitterly so, and stinging pricks of ice land on his skin as he leans back, shield on the ground. He presses his back into the icy, metal wall behind him, staring into nothingness as the train moves on, away from the mountains.

Away from where Bucky lay.

It happened in an instant, a heartbeat. A dream, a future, ripped apart by the howling winds in the canyon.

He never even got to say goodbye.

Steve pulls his knees to his chest, pressing himself tighter into the small space where he sat. He used to do this, before, when the asthma rose up in his chest and he couldn’t breathe. Steve swallows hard, past the lump in his throat. The metal wall behind him is icy, leeching the warmth from his body, yet Steve doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just keeps staring into the space in front of him.

The memories come soon after.

In the dream-world, he’s 17. Rejected again, for the 10th time, this time for his asthma. He’s furious, because people are dying out there, risking their lives for his freedom, and by God, he can’t just sit there and do nothing. He comes back from the recruitment office, into the apartment he shares with Bucky. It’s is small, all unpolished beams and a rough stone floor, steaming in the summer and freezing in the winter. He storms to the kitchen table, slams his rejection letter down and stands there, fuming, wanting to smash something, break something, because it just wasn’t fair. Bucky always laughed whenever Steve brought it up, shaking his head. You’re the only guy I know who wants to be in that goddamn army, he had said one night. Calm down, pipsqueak!

But Bucky didn’t get it. Bucky didn’t know that feeling, of being responsible for someone. Steve was raised in the slums, saw first hand what happened to people when others trod on them, kids starving and begging for food. Bucky didn’t know. Steve paces, up and down, the roof bearing down on top of his head, suffocating him, until finally, he can’t take it. He slams open the door, pausing only to scribble a quick message to Bucky. On the roof, it said, as he stormed out the door.

Steve stalks up the stairs, the iron groaning with every motion. He steps onto the roof, full of cracked concrete and broken glass. The air is stale, the smoke from the factories filling the dry wind. He stands, staring at all the people, all the lights, and without meaning to, his mind turns to Bucky.

He remembers when he was 14. It was a cold winter, and the asthma had gotten worse. Days of hacking and coughing, each breath exhausting. He remembered lying in bed with Bucky, Bucky’s warm body pressing against his cold one. He remembers keeping still, keeping silent, not moving because God, he didn’t want the dream to end, to wake up a find Bucky not there.

He barely saw him, now that Bucky was working. He was gone every morning, coming back late at night. Buck always seemed to be smiling, his face alight as he told some story of some incident at the docks that day, as he drank another glass of wine or whisky or beer. Steve had seen him, however, when Bucky thought he was alone. Stretching out his back, bandaging his fingers, a look of desperation on his face, broken and battered and bruised.

It didn’t stop Steve from drawing him. Hundreds and hundreds of drawings, filling up pages and pages in his sketchbook. Sneaking glances at Bucky when he wasn’t looking, the curves of his shoulders and the lines on his back. Steve drew him, lifting boxes and drinking wine and in the rain walking home under the streetlights.

And sometimes, he drew himself kissing Bucky.

He knew that it was wrong, knew that it was disgusting. Bucky would hate him, abandon him and Steve couldn’t risk that. No, it was better to keep quiet, keep drawing, bury those dreams.

Besides, Bucky didn’t want him like that. Bucky was normal, a different girl on his arm every week. He’d tried to set Steve up with a brunette, named Dolly or Doris or something like that. Steve had accepted, pasting a smile on his face, because how could he not? How could he tell Bucky? How could he show him the figures on the pages, drawn in charcoal and ink and lead?

Steve was lost in thought, gazing at the skyline when he heard the door open and Bucky stepped onto the roof, clad in brown and green and a hat cocked on his head.

Steve swallowed, trying so damn hard not to stare and stare and stare because Bucky was beautiful, and he could never know. He took a deep breath, choking out a small, “Hey Buck.”

Bucky smiles. “Hey, Punk.”

And just because he could, just because the world was falling apart around him, Steve allowed himself to put an arm around Bucky.

He felt Bucky’s heart hammering, pounding away inside of his chest under his hand. Panic fills Steve’s gut, because Oh God, does he know? and he looks up at Bucky, trying to think of something, anything to stop those thoughts that were in his head. They are so close, every point of contact on fire, and Steve swallows hard. Bucky looks down at him, bites his lip, and all Steve wants to do is draw him, with the city behind him and the sun in front of him.

And while he’s panicking, while he’s confused and afraid and scared, Bucky leans over and kisses him.

It’s a brief kiss, barely a brushing of lips, and Steve thinks, oh, this is what it is supposed to feel like. He tries to lean forwards, but Bucky is pulling away, a mixture of terror and hope and heartbreak carved onto his face. And Steve’s heart is racing, pounding, because oh God, this is really happening, and he leans forwards, wraps his arms around Bucky, and pulls him into another kiss.

He feels Bucky stiffen briefly, then relax, the tension leaving his body, and Steve’s hands move to cup the back of Bucky’s head, pulling him closer and closer, kissing him harder as around them, the sun starts to set and the rain starts to pour. And it’s just like what he drew in his sketchbook, him and Bucky, kissing as the world spins around them and the rain cascades down.

I screenshot this [for] you