❈ K╋━

So you didn't tell him.

"You're evil," Tony said, not looking up from his tablet. You were both in the common room kitchen. You making coffee, him pretending to work while actually watching the security feed of the east hallway on a secondary screen. "You're both evil and I'm entertained."

"Don't know what you're talking about." you said, pouring creamer.

"Camera twelve, thirty seconds ago. Bucky just pulled you into the supply closet by your belt loops. You were in there for four minutes and came out with your shirt buttoned wrong."

You looked down. Damn. "We're organizing supplies."

"Uh-huh. And I'm organizing Pepper's schedule. Which I actually am, because I'm a functional adult who doesn't need to hide in closets—"

The door burst open. Steve strode in, fresh from the gym, towel around his neck, looking unfairly wholesome. "Hey! Have you guys seen Bucky? I wanted to go over some mission parameters, but he's not answering his comm."

Tony's eyes flicked to you. You took a long sip of coffee.

"Last I saw, he was heading toward the east wing." you said, which was technically true. Four minutes ago. Before the supply closet.

"Thanks, Y/N," Steve clapped your shoulder with that heavy, well meaning hand. "You're the best."

He left. Tony stared at you.

"East wing," Tony repeated. "You sent Captain America on a scavenger hunt while your boyfriend hides his...supplies."

"He'll find him eventually. Probably in the armory. Bucky's probably cleaning his guns."

"Is that what we're calling it now?"

You flipped him off.

The problem with living in a building full of super spies and geniuses was that privacy was theoretical. The problem with dating Bucky Barnes was that he had seventy years of repressed libido and absolutely no chill.

"Steve's in the gym," Bucky breathed against your neck, walking you backward into your bedroom. "Forty five minute routine. I timed it."

"You timed my brother's workout?"

"For us," Bucky said, like this was romantic. And honestly? It kind of was. His hands were already under your shirt, warm and calloused, the metal one trailing cool against your spine. "Forty minutes. I can make you come twice. Three times if you're loud."

"I'm never loud." you lied.

Bucky grinned, wicked and sharp. "Challenge accepted."

You were forty minutes into proving exactly how loud you could be—Bucky's mouth on your throat, your legs wrapped around his waist, the bed hitting the wall in a rhythm that was definitely going to leave marks—when the knock came.

"Hey! You in there?" Steve's voice, muffled but present.

You both froze. Bucky was still inside you, breathing hard, eyes wide.

"Shit." you mouthed.

"Didn't know he finished early." Bucky mouthed back.

The knock came again. "I wanted to see if you wanted to get dinner! Just us, like old times. I feel like I haven't seen you all week."

Because you'd been avoiding him. Because every time you sat down for a meal, Bucky would look at you across the table with that look, and you'd have to excuse yourself to jerk off in the bathroom like a teenager.

"Yeah!" you called out, your voice cracking only slightly. "Just—just a minute! I'm changing!"

"Okay! I'll wait!"

Bucky's forehead dropped to your shoulder. He was shaking, you realized, with laughter or desperation. You couldn't tell.

"We have to be quiet." you whispered.

"He's right outside the door."

"I know."

Bucky pulled back slightly, just enough to roll his hips. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood. "Don't." He did it again. The metal hand clamped over your mouth, stifling the moan you couldn't hold back.

"Everything okay in there?" Steve called.

"Fine!" you managed, voice muffled by Bucky's palm. "Just stubbed my toe!"

"Oh! You want me to get you some ice?"

"No!" you yelped as Bucky thrust again, watching your face with dark amusement. "I'm good! Just give me five minutes!"

"Okay! Take your time!"

You heard him settle against the door. Actually settle. Like he was going to stand guard.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. Still?

You nodded frantically. Still.

What followed was the most intense, silent sex of your life. Bucky's hand still covered your mouth, his eyes locked on yours. Every time you made a noise, he'd pause, shake his head minutely, and wait for Steve to shift his weight outside before moving again.

It was torture. It was exquisite.

When you came, it was with Bucky's name silent on your lips, your back arching off the bed, his hand keeping you quiet as your body shook. He followed a moment later, burying his face in your neck, his own release silent and shuddering.

You lay there, panting, listening to your brother hum the Star-Spangled Banner on the other side of the door.

"I hate you." you whispered to Bucky.

"I know," he whispered back, kissing your jaw. "Worth it?"

You couldn't even answer. You were too busy trying to remember how to walk.

Five minutes later, you opened the door. Steve beamed at you, then looked past you to where Bucky was sitting on your bed, fully clothed, cleaning his knife.

"Oh! Hey, Buck! Didn't know you were here."

"Just stopped by to borrow a book." Bucky said smoothly, not looking up.

"What book?"

Bucky paused. Looked at you. You looked at the ceiling.

"...The Great Gatsby." Bucky said.

"You hate The Great Gatsby," Steve said. "You said it was 'a book about a stalker with money.'"

"Trying to broaden my horizons."

Steve studied him for a long moment. You held your breath. Then he smiled, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. "That's great, pal. Self-improvement. I like it. You guys ready for dinner?"

"Starving." you said, and Bucky coughed into his fist.

The Avengers knew.

Of course they knew.

Natasha had figured it out in week one, because she was Natasha. She'd found you in the gym at 3 AM, Bucky's jacket around your shoulders, his hickey on your collarbone, and she'd just nodded once and said, "About time. He's less murder-y when he's getting laid."

She'd kept the secret without being asked. Natasha understood secrets. She understood that some things needed to stay small and safe before they were ready for the light.

Clint knew because he'd walked in on you in the vents. You'd been hiding from Steve, Bucky had been hiding with you, and things had gotten handsy. Clint had backed out slowly, given you a thumbs up, and later left a box of condoms on your pillow with a note: 

For the greater good. Also, vents have cameras. You're welcome.

Tony knew because Tony knew everything, and he was enjoying the show too much to spoil it.

Thor knew because he was Thor, and while he didn't fully understand Midgardian courtship rituals, he understood that "secret love is the most passionate love" and had taken to giving you knowing winks that made you want to die.

Bruce knew because he had excellent hearing and the Hulk had apparently developed opinions about your relationship that he communicated through meaningful grunts.

And Steve—Steve knew that you and Bucky were close. Closer than close. Best friends, he'd say proudly, watching you two train together, watching Bucky teach you knife throws, watching you bring Bucky coffee exactly how he liked it (black, two sugars, in the red mug because the blue one had a chip).

"He's going to kill us when he finds out." Bucky said one day while holding you in your bed.

"He's not going to find out."

"He's Captain America, doll. He's going to walk in on us eventually, or Tony's going to get drunk and spill it, or—"

"Or," you said, looking up at him, "we keep being careful. We keep it ours. Just a little longer."

Bucky looked tired, but he was smiling. "You really want to keep sneaking around? The supply closets? The quickies in the armory? That time in the quinjet while he was flying it?"

"That was risky," you admitted. "But also hot."