#flustered reader

From his perch on the edge of the couch, Sam sipped his beer and grinned. “Tipsy kitten?”

“Shut up, Wilson,” Bucky grumbled. “She’s fragile.”

You were pretty sure you were the only sober one in the room. And yet Bucky, who had done four celebratory tequila shots with Thor ten minutes ago, was now babying you like you were one hiccup away from collapse.

You tried again. “I’m really not drunk.”

“That’s exactly what a drunk person would say.”

Natasha snorted. “She’s literally the one who drove you here.”

“And I thank her for her service,” Bucky said solemnly, wobbling slightly on his feet. “But I’ve got it from here. I’ll take care of her. Always do.”

“Always?” you muttered, and Bucky turned to beam at you.

“She cries after sex, y’know,” he said proudly.

Your soul left your body.

“Oh my god, James,” you hissed.

“Not because she’s sad,” he continued, unfazed, addressing the room like a man delivering a TED talk. “Because it’s so good. Her words. Not mine. Though I agree. I think it’s that one move I do—”

“BUCKY!”

Everyone erupted. Sam literally dropped his drink from laughing. Tony looked like he was about to take notes. Wanda covered her mouth. Steve whispered a soft “Jesus Christ” and turned toward the wall like it might save him.

Meanwhile, Bucky looked so pleased with himself.

“I’m just sayin’,” he shrugged. “She gets all emotional. It’s beautiful.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m going to die here. This is my death.”

“NO!” Bucky shouted, stumbling over to you. “No dying. You’ve had too much. You’re acting unstable.”

“I am sober, you absolute menace.”

He leaned in conspiratorially, whispering directly into your ear, “Don’t worry. I’ll hold your hair if you need to throw up.”

“I will end you.”

“Later, doll,” he grinned. “You always say that in bed, too.”

A sound left your mouth that may have been a wheeze.

Clint stood up, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Barnes, sit down before you reveal the coordinates of your sex tape.”

“We don’t have a tape,” Bucky said, then immediately followed it with, “Because we deleted it.”

Tony clapped once. “That’s enough entertainment for the evening, folks.”

But Bucky wasn’t done.

Oh no.

Because now he had moved into the delusional caretaker phase.

“You need water,” he said, cradling your face in his hands like you were seconds from passing out. “Where’s your water? You gotta hydrate. It’s important. You’re so small. You dehydrate faster than other people.”

“I’ve been hydrating,” you said flatly. “Meanwhile, you drank what was basically liquid gasoline.”

“Because I’m a super soldier,” he whispered, poking your nose. “You’re just a civilian angel.”

You looked around the room helplessly. “Can someone tase him?”

“No way,” Sam said through his laughter. “I’m letting this play out.”

“I’m gonna make you toast,” Bucky declared, staggering toward the kitchen. “That’ll soak up the booze. Where do we keep toast?”

“THE BREADBOX,” you and Steve shouted in unison.

Bucky paused, then snapped his fingers. “Right. Secret bread drawer.”

You flopped back against the couch as he banged around the kitchen, opening cabinets with the urgency of someone defusing a bomb. “Why is he like this?”

Nat shrugged. “Honestly? This is the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”

You glanced into the kitchen where Bucky was holding two slices of bread up like they were treasure. “He looks like he’s about to kiss the bread.”

“I might,” he shouted. “Because it’s for her.”

You groaned into a throw pillow.

By the time you finally got him wrangled into a coat and ready to leave, he’d managed to trip over a chair, try to bridal carry you and almost drop both of you, and glare at Sam while yelling, “DON’T CORRUPT HER WITH YOUR FILTHY JOKES. SHE’S A LADY.”

“She has more dirty jokes than I do!” Sam replied.

“DOESN’T MATTER. SHE’S MY LADY.”

“Bucky, get in the car.”

“Don’t raise your voice, she’s had a rough night,” he whispered, swaying dangerously.

You rubbed your temples. “I literally haven’t.”

When you finally got him into the passenger seat and clicked his seatbelt, Bucky turned to you with glassy, adoring eyes and whispered, “I love you so much, it’s stupid.”

Your heart softened.

“I know,” you said gently, brushing his hair back from his face. “You’ll remember all of this tomorrow and die of shame.”

That was all it was supposed to be. A simple task while Aventurine attended yet another high-stakes meeting with the upper echelon of Pier Point's Investment Syndicate. You weren't even supposed to be seen. But then someone said something—something about him, and you’d snapped.

Now, standing in the middle of the opulent hallway, with a grown executive shaking and stammering apologies while practically in tears, you barely noticed the sound of footsteps until it was too late.

“Now that’s not something you see every day.”

Your stomach dropped.

You turned, eyes wide, face going redder by the second.

Aventurine stood there in the doorway, hat tilted, a familiar smirk tugging at his lips, but his eyes were wide with unfiltered curiosity. Maybe even... awe?

“Sunshine,” he drawled, slowly stepping closer, glancing past you toward the blubbering executive. “I leave for fifteen minutes, and you turn the place into a courtroom drama. Should I be flattered or terrified?”

“I—uh—it’s not what it looked like—” You began stumbling over your words, shoulders practically shrinking.

But Aventurine wasn’t laughing. Not yet.

Instead, he circled around you slowly, like a lion eyeing something far more interesting than prey.

“You glared at him, and I swear I saw his soul leave his body,” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. “You didn’t even raise your voice. Just stared him down like he owed you seven lifetimes.”

You winced. “He said you were nothing but a fraud in a pretty suit.”

A pause.

Aventurine blinked, then let out a low whistle. “So that’s what did it. You were defending me, darling?”

Your head dipped, face now fully hidden in your palms. “I-I didn’t mean to go that far...”

“Oh no, no, no,” he said, gliding in to gently pull your hands away from your face. “Don’t start blushing now—I live for your blushes, but this?” He chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “This is brand-new. You, threatening a full-grown man into submission without lifting a finger? It’s... frankly, exhilarating.”

Your eyes widened. “You’re not mad?”

Aventurine leaned in, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “I’m a little scared, sweetheart. But gods above, do I love it.”

You choked on your own breath, burying your face in his chest out of sheer embarrassment.

He laughed then, arms wrapping around you with ease, that usual cocky warmth bleeding into something softer, more grounded. “For the record, you had him on the verge of tears before I even walked in. I’ve made CEOs cry with five-year economic forecasts, and I’ve never gotten that reaction.”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you mumbled against his shirt.

“You didn’t scare me, love,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You scared him. I’ve seen men pull guns on me without batting an eye. But you? You give him one look and he aged ten years.”

He pulled back enough to meet your eyes again, his grin a little gentler now.

“I always thought I had you all figured out, [Name]. Shy, soft, sweet... and completely at my mercy.”

You puffed your cheeks at him, and he snorted.

“But I was wrong. There’s a whole other side of you. One that could probably have me begging for mercy if I stepped too far.”

You looked away, embarrassed again. “I don’t like people insulting the ones I love.”

Aventurine went quiet for a beat.

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “Then I’m the luckiest man alive.”

You blinked at him.

He leaned in, so close his lips barely brushed yours. “Because I get to say I’m loved by you. Every part of you—shy and scary.”

You laughed nervously, trying to pull away, but he caught your chin with two fingers, his expression unusually earnest.

“Don’t hide that side from me. Ever,” he whispered. “You think you shocked me? Maybe. But you also reminded me I’m not the only one playing a game of masks.”

“And if you ever feel like snapping someone into pieces again,” he added with a sly smile, “just let me know in advance. I’ll bring popcorn.”

You groaned and shoved his chest lightly, earning a rich laugh.

He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“I adore you, sunshine. Every fiery, terrifying inch.”

Later that night, Aventurine was overheard warning a junior executive in the elevator:

“If you ever so much as look at [Name] the wrong way, just know this—I won’t have to lift a finger. My darling will eviscerate you with a smile. And between us?” He grinned as the elevator doors slid shut. “I can’t say I blame them.”

Working with the Winter Soldier was supposed to be a career-defining moment.

You were the Avengers’ lead medical specialist—trusted to patch up wounds, assess injuries, and quietly observe from behind glass. You never expected to be placed on personal watch. But when James Buchanan Barnes was brought in, recovering from Hydra’s grip and his fractured past, everything changed.

It had been about a month now. You were tracking both his physical recovery and psychological stability, reporting closely to Steve and Natasha, and checking in daily. He was doing well—faster than expected. But there were still moments where his stare lingered too long on shadows, where his reactions flinched too sharply.

That’s why you were currently standing in your office above the training floor, watching him spar with Steve through the reinforced window.

He was fighting without his metal arm today—at your request.

You needed to see how he coped without it. Whether the muscle memory of the Winter Soldier kicked in… or if he was just a man defending himself. So far, he was holding his own. You made a note of it, fingers tapping at your tablet.

The match ended with Steve giving him a pat on the back. Bucky gave a breathless nod, walking over to the bench where his arm rested.

And then he did it.

In one fluid, practiced motion, Bucky grabbed the prosthetic by the bicep, swung it smoothly around his back, and locked it into place on his shoulder with a solid click.

Your knees went a little weak.

You had no business reacting like that, but the grace, the confidence in the motion—it did something. You swallowed thickly, heart skipping as you shifted your weight.

“You good, Doc?”

A voice behind you. You jumped.

Natasha stood leaning against your office doorway, arms crossed and smirking knowingly.

“I’m fine,” you said a little too fast, “I’m fine”

Nat’s eyes glinted. “Uh huh.” She looked through the glass toward the gym. “Might want to sit down next time. Just in case he really turns on the charm.”

You blinked at her, mouth slightly open.

With a teasing wink, she turned and walked away, leaving you pink-faced and flustered.

You looked back down to the gym—just in time to see Bucky glancing up at your window.

He caught your gaze and offered a little wave before toweling off and heading for the water dispenser.

You sighed and sank into your chair, rubbing your temples. Five minutes. That’s how long you had before he came upstairs for his post-session evaluation.

Spinning slowly in your chair, you pulled up his file and glanced at his photo.

You are a professional. You are not allowed to be affected by sharp jaws or broad shoulders or perfect goddamn eye contact.

Another sigh. You opened a new report and began typing your observations, noting stamina, coordination, emotional stability, restraint.

Just as you hit “Save,” a knock echoed on the door.

Right on schedule.

“Hey, Doc,” Bucky greeted as he stepped inside like he owned the place. He perched on the edge of your desk without waiting for permission, towel still around his neck, his dark hair damp with sweat.

“So,” he said, plucking a stress ball off your desk and giving it a squeeze, “I heard I’m more dangerous off the field than on it.”

You froze, blinking at your screen.

Your gaze flickered to him—only for a second—before returning to the monitor.

“And whom have you heard this from, Mr. Barnes?” you asked evenly.

He shrugged, still fiddling with the stress ball like it didn’t look like he was flexing on purpose. “Y’know. Words go around. Some redheads whisper things. And apparently… someone’s been a little distracted by my moves.”

Your brow arched. “Mr. Barnes, I’m concerned about your recovery, not your choreography. I should hope you understand I am strictly professional. Everything I do is for your health and safety.”

You stood, grabbing a stack of papers and aligning them neatly with a few taps on the desk before stapling them. A nice distraction.

But when you looked up, he was still staring at you with that maddeningly soft, amused expression.

“You sure you’re not secretly impressed, Doc?” he asked with a lazy smirk.

Your cheeks warmed. You turned quickly, walking over to the file cabinet.

“I see you’ve been making steady progress,” you said curtly, filing away the report. “Although I may have to keep you under observation longer if you keep imagining things. Hallucinations are rarely a sign of good mental health.”

You shut the drawer firmly and walked past him toward the door, trying to keep your voice level.

“Please excuse me, Mr. Barnes. I need caffeine.”

⸻

Coffee in hand, you returned ten minutes later, still trying to shake off the heat in your face. You pushed open your office door, half-prepping your next report in your head—until something shifted in the corner of your eye.

You flinched.

“Jesus Christ, Buck— Mr. Barnes,” you gasped, hand over your chest. “I thought you’d left. What are you still doing here?”

He didn’t turn. Still facing your wall calendar.

“Hey Doc,” he said casually, “you’re free Tuesday night, right?”

You raised a brow, stepping around him to place your coffee on your desk. “Why do you ask?”

He looked over his shoulder at you, and there it was again—that smile. Soft. Sweet. Completely unfair.

“I’ve got tickets to a new exhibition,” he said. “But I’m gonna look real lonely if I don’t have a date.”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “This isn’t the 1940s, Mr. Barnes. People go alone all the time.”

He spun around and walked toward you with quiet determination, like a man on a mission.

Before you could say a word, he gently—so gently—lifted your chin with his fingertips. His touch was barely there, but it was enough to stop time.

“One night,” he murmured. “I promise it’ll be worth it. I’ll make it worth your time.”

Your breath caught. You stared at him, trying to muster some kind of resistance. Anything.

But your heart was already pounding in your ears.

You cleared your throat and stepped away, brushing invisible lint off your sleeve.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” you said, focusing very intently on your coffee cup. “I’ll be attending for medical purposes, of course.”

You walked briskly back behind your desk. “If that’s all, Mr. Barnes, you may leave. I’m quite busy.”

He chuckled lowly, clearly enjoying himself. He made it to the door, hand on the handle, then glanced back with a grin that could only be described as smug.

“I’ll pick you up at 6:30.”

Then he slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

You sat in stunned silence.

And then leaned back slowly in your chair, hands over your face as your heart thudded against your ribs.

He wasn’t even subtle. One day he was shirtless on your couch with a controller in hand, yelling at some alien invasion game. Another day he was in your kitchen, eating cereal straight from the box, asking if “almond milk expires or just gets weirder.”

You did your best to keep it together. But your brain did this thing where it stopped working any time he spoke directly to you.

"Hey, you always smell like vanilla or cookies. Is that...on purpose?"

You had stared at him for a beat too long before mumbling, “I'm a dessert in human form,” and then immediately walked into the doorframe.

Subtlety, thy name was not you.

The worst part? He noticed.

One evening, Leon plopped down on the couch beside you, stretching his arm casually along the back. “So, uh... Emma says you’re taking Psych 203. How’s learning about the human mind going?”

You looked up from your laptop, trying not to swoon over his stupidly perfect jawline.

“Fascinating. Did you know people with crushes tend to act like total idiots around the object of their affection?”

He smirked. “Yeah, I’d heard that. From... science.”

There was a pause.

A knowing pause.

“You’ve been acting kinda weird around me lately,” he said, leaning in slightly. “Any theories on that?”

Your brain sprinted through a thousand escape routes, but your mouth betrayed you: “Maybe you’re just so pretty it short-circuits my ability to function.”

Silence. You wanted to melt into the couch and become one with the upholstery.

Then, Leon laughed—warm and genuine. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.” He nudged your shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I think your ‘idiot mode’ is kinda cute.”

You turned to him, eyes narrowing. “So you knew?”

He shrugged. “I had a hunch. Emma may have also texted me a play-by-play the night you called me ‘a tall glass of emergency services.’”

You groaned. “I meant to say ‘emergency snack.’”

“That’s... not better.”

Leon’s fingers brushed yours. Just lightly. Like he wasn’t sure if it was on purpose or not. You stared at your hands, frozen, your brain screaming this is not a drill.

“So,” he said, voice a little quieter, “what happens next in this whole 'crush’ science experiment?”

You blinked. “Well. Typically… the subject either flees or confesses.”

Leon nodded solemnly. “And which one are you feeling?”

“…somewhere between flight and total emotional combustion.”

He grinned, biting back a laugh. “You really do say the weirdest things when you’re flustered.”

“You’re not helping,” you muttered, but there was no heat behind it. He was still close. Still looking at you like he was memorizing your face.

“I’m actually trying to help,” he said, softer this time. “Because, truth is—I’ve kind of had a thing for you, too.”

You blinked. “Is this a prank? Because if Emma jumps out with a camera, I swear to—”

“No prank,” he said, laughing. “Though I’m sure Emma’s waiting in her room with popcorn.”

As if summoned by name, her door creaked open and she peeked out, phone in hand. “Is it happening? Did someone confess? Are you guys gonna kiss or what?”

Leon rolled his eyes but smiled. “Emma, go away.”

“I live here!”

“So does your best friend,” he said, nudging you. “And I’m trying to have a moment with them.”

Emma made a strangled squeal and shut the door with a dramatic thud.

The room went quiet again. Leon’s thumb lightly brushed your hand this time—definitely not an accident.

You smiled, cheeks warm. “So, you really like me?”

He shrugged, but his eyes were all sincerity. “I’m pretty sure I’ve liked you since the first time you yelled at me for drinking your oat milk. You called me ‘a menace with abs.’ It was… charming.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’m never living that down, am I?”

“Nope,” he said, leaning in just a little more. “But I’d like to be around to keep quoting it back to you. If that’s okay.”

You looked up at him, heart pounding in the best way. “It’s more than okay.”

And when he kissed you—finally—Emma’s muffled cheer from behind the door didn’t even ruin it.

----------------

Leon’s POV – Three Days Earlier..

He wasn’t trying to fall for his best friend’s roommate. Really.

But the first time you mumbled something like “Leon Kennedy, walking thirst trap” under your breath—loud enough for him to hear as you tripped over your own shoelaces—something in his brain short-circuited.

He had smiled all the way home that night, even when he walked into a lamp post.

At first, he’d chalked it up to harmless flirting. A few jokes, some teasing, the occasional weirdly specific compliment (“Your hair looks like it belongs in a very clean action movie.” What did that mean?). But then he started noticing the little things.

Like how you always looked away when he caught you staring.

How you fidgeted when he sat too close.

How you always remembered how he liked his coffee, even though he’d only mentioned it once.

And how—when you laughed—it kind of echoed in his chest for longer than it should’ve.

That’s when he knew he was in trouble.

He tried playing it cool. Tried to act like he wasn’t low-key counting the days until Emma invited him over again. But then she caught him scrolling through your Instagram at work, and that was the end of that charade.

“You’re an idiot,” she told him. “They like you back, you know.”

Leon blinked. “What?”

“Leon. They call you things like ‘certified menace with a jawline’ when they think I’m not listening. Ask them out already.”

He spent two days psyching himself up. Day one: complete failure—he just asked if you had any ketchup. Day two: also a failure—he made it to the living room but chickened out and started a conversation about mushroom-based protein.

Day three, though? That was game day.

He flopped on the couch, started with casual banter, and fully expected to keep things surface-level until you dropped that whole “people act like idiots around their crushes” line.

His heart did something weird.

And when you called yourself a dessert?

Yeah. That was it. He knew he had to say something before he combusted—or kissed you mid-sentence, which, while tempting, might’ve been poor form.

But when you looked back at him with that hopeful, deer-in-headlights kind of smile?

He was gone.

You’re new in town and finally work up the courage to sign up for the gym everyone raves about—the one with the state-of-the-art equipment, intense classes, and a gruff, no-nonsense trainer named Chris Redfield. He’s all business: serious, structured, and somehow still patient with you, even when you can’t tell a kettlebell from a dumbbell. Over the next few weeks, you start growing more confident—and more hopelessly flustered. Especially when he flashes that rare, crooked smile that makes your knees buckle.

One afternoon, Chris stumbles across a small leather-bound notebook you accidentally left in the locker room. Planning to return it, he flips it open to confirm it’s yours—only to discover it’s your journal. Inside are hilarious, heartfelt entries about your gym misadventures, awkward encounters, and, much to his surprise, your very detailed thoughts on just how attractive you find your trainer.

He tells himself to stop reading. He knows it’s an invasion of privacy. But then he sees the line:

"Pretty sure I accidentally moaned when he corrected my form. Please bury me in the squat rack."

From that moment, your workouts feel...different. Chris becomes quieter, more intense. His eyes linger a little longer; his hands pause just a moment more when adjusting your form. There’s heat under the surface. One day, after you drop your water bottle for the third time and stammer something about replacing all your fingers with thumbs, he corners you by the dumbbell rack and murmurs:

“Tell me, exactly how hot do you think I am?”

Cue the slow burn: lingering touches, flustered stares, tension so thick you could bench press it. Accidental run-ins outside the gym that feel suspiciously like fate. He helps you re-rack weights while trying not to look too amused. You swear you’re fine—until he brushes his hand over your back during a stretch and your soul momentarily leaves your body.