Archive of Our Own ^beta

In all the months you’d worn the patchwork title of Avenger, or Thunderbolt—whichever shiny new label Alexei was spewing that week—you could only recall one moment where Bucky Barnes had truly seen you.

Most of the time, you were convinced you existed somewhere in his periphery. A stray Val had deposited on his doorstep, and he hadn’t yet figured out the return policy. An obligation disguised as a teammate.

That was the problem with Bucky: he was a reluctant leader. One who wore the mantle like an ill-fitted coat. Some days, you wondered if he carried it like a punishment. Like you were his punishment. He scowled through the endless missions, debriefs and press conferences, shouldering the team’s chaos as though it were his personal penance. And whenever his gaze happened upon you, it lingered—not warmly, not cruelly—but just long enough to remind you that Bucky Barnes had no fucking clue what to make of you.

It might have been easier to stomach if you didn’t catch yourself enjoying that scowl, or the way his eyes stripped you bare before dismissing you entirely.

You had been a late addition to the lineup, shoved into the mix courtesy of Val after she remembered you were another loose thread she hadn’t clipped yet. The others hadn’t exactly welcomed you with open arms—with the exception of Alexei, who would talk to a brick wall if it listened—no, the rest of them had eyed you like you were a trap waiting to be sprung. Cautious. That was the word. Cautious that Val had planted you as a spy, a saboteur, a fuse already lit and burning, placed directly into their laps.

And you, if you were honest with yourself, hadn’t exactly helped their suspicions.

You were awkward, brash in ways that rarely landed. Your humour had a habit of falling flat, your sarcam subtle enough to be mistaken for sincerity. It took weeks before the ragtag crew stopped stiffening every time you opened your mouth, bracing for a punchline to turn into a knife.

You had always made people nervous. Not just because of your ineptitude at social interaction, but because of something much deeper—a fundamental unease sewn into the fabric of who you were. Their worries about you being a spy weren’t entirely unfounded when your greatest power was the one thing that guaranteed distrust: invisibility. The ability to vanish at will. To linger unseen. Unsurprisingly, it made people jumpy, especially a messy group of reluctant heroes with more skeletons in their closet than the natural history museum. And whether you were present or not, your teammates always seemed half-convinced you were right there in the room with them, hidden in plain sight, listening to secrets that were never meant for you.

But over time, suspicion had given way to camaraderie. The wary glances, the stiff silences, the subtle double-checks that you were actually gone when you vanished… those had softened into something resembling friendship. Bob shared in your awkward humour, Yelena tolerated your vanishing act with an eyeroll. Even John had relaxed enough to grumble in your general direction without scepticism lacing every word.

But Bucky? He seemed inexplicably drawn to you, whether he was conscious of it or not. If it wasn’t the staring, it was a lingering—an ever-present awareness of where you were. At first, you’d told yourself it was distrust, his refusal to let you slip too far from sight in case you were truly up to something. But as the edges of that apprehension dulled with time, you were left with a more unsettling question: did he still see you as he had on day one, untouched by everything that had passed between you? Or was it something else entirely that kept him close?

And now—thanks to your own mouth and self-imposed hubris—you were shoulder-to-shoulder with the man himself

It had started innocently enough. Team bonding. Some backhanded comment from Alexei about the lack of wholesome group activities (though, Alexei’s idea of wholesome was sparring until blood was drawn). From there, the conversation had spiralled into a half-serious list of corporate-retreat level nonsense: trust falls, blindfolded obstacle courses, and Alcoholics Anonymous-level sharing circles.

Then, inevitably—as was a recurring pattern with the group—the conversation turned competitive. One misplaced claim from Yelena, stating she’d wipe the floor with everyone in a game of hide-and-seek, turned the sarcastic mumblings and cackling into chaos. Ava had scoffed and remarked she wouldn’t stand a chance. And you, naturally, couldn’t resist chiming in. ‘Hello? Invisibility? This isn’t even a contest!’

That was all it took. The discussion devolved into a full-blown shouting match, arguments about rules and loopholes. Until Bucky, exasperated and weary, muttered: ‘Why don’t you just play the damn game instead of arguing?’

You’d seen the regret in his face the second he said it, jaw tightening as Alexei leapt up, already claiming seeker.

And now you were stuffed into a wardrobe, pressed against the back panel between coats, invisible and smug in the knowledge you’d already won. That was until Bucky found you almost immediately. No hesitation, no circling the room for show. He just swung open the door like he’d known all along, stepping inside and shutting the world away without a word.

“You can’t hide in here with me—” You hissed, powers flickering out as you reappeared.

He shifted in place, his broad frame swallowing the narrow space, arm brushing yours as he settled in beside you. You held your breath, staring anywhere but at him, determined not to acknowledge how hot the air suddenly felt, or betray the way your body registered every inch of him.

“Thought you said you were gonna win this thing?” His voice was low, close enough that you felt it against your ear. “Figured I might as well join you in victory.”

“You’re a leech.” You huffed, though it came out thinner than intended. “How’d you even find me anyway? You could’ve at least pretended to struggle before waltzing in—”

His reply was almost a smirk, gone before it fully formed. “I knew exactly where you’d go.”

That snapped your head toward him before you could stop it, temple brushing the cool wood. His face was far closer than you’d anticipated, close enough that you caught the sharp lines of his jaw in the dimness, the steady weight of his gaze pinning you where you stood. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you whispered.

His gaze flicked down, raking over you in a way that felt deliberate. Your pulse stuttered, traitorous.

“Means,” he said finally, voice low, the corner of his mouth twitching again, “you’re not half as unpredictable as you think you are.”

You scoffed weakly, trying to mask the thrum in your chest. Because the truth was—however ridiculous as it seemed—you had been in this exact position before. And the more you thought about it, the less you believed he’d simply stumbled upon this spot. No, Bucky Barnes wasn’t a man who relied on accidents. He’d chosen this spot, chosen to shut himself in the dark with you, close enough to feel your every breath. Not for some cheap, shared victory… but for the very same reason you had.

—

Two months ago, Val had organised one of her endless galas for the sponsors of the New Avengers. In theory, it was a celebration of progress. In practice, it was a parade of donors, minor politicians and people who thought they were charming because they owned half of Manhattan. You and the rest of the team tried your best not to get too sucked into Val’s charades, but unfortunately, the Avengers Tower did need to get its funding from somewhere.
The tower hummed like a hive beyond the walls, champagne glasses clinking, rich laughter and polite conversation stretched thin.

You’d lasted all of twenty minutes, maybe less. Your fake smile had started to ache into something closer to a grimace by the time you slipped down a side corridor, ducking into one of the storage rooms the team used for overflow gear.

The room smelt faintly stale, with a vague scent of dust and polish. Boxes were stacked high and crooked to the ceiling on one side, while others were scattered across the room in various stages of unpacking. You perched on one, a wooden crate stamped with something that looked suspiciously like a Stark logo. The expensive silk of your dress pooled around your thighs, the slit up the side suddenly feeling extra reckless in the cool air. You bent over one leg, frowning at the bent buckle on the strap. The clasp refused to catch, no matter how carefully you coaxed it.

With a sigh, you fiddled and twisted the stubborn metal. It was nearly impossible to get a proper grip on the bloody thing with the perfectly manicured nails Val had insisted you had to match your outfit. You had laughed when the others had told you about Bob’s blonde moment under Val’s influence, but now you could only feel sympathy as you had fallen victim to her controlling ‘artistic vision’—

You jerked upright, nearly sliding off the crate as the door creaked open.

Bucky Barnes filled the doorway—broad shoulders haloed by the dim hall light, black suit cut sharp against the rugged line of him. For a heartbeat, he scanned the room on instinct, quick and assessing, until his eyes found you. Surprise flickered there, gone almost before you could be sure, replaced by the cool, unreadable calm you’d come to expect.

If you were the kind of person who bruised easily, you might have taken offence. From the day you’d joined the team he’d been courteous but distant, all clipped nods and careful silences. You’d long decided not to take it personally—Bucky distrusted everyone at first—but it didn’t stop the occasional sting.

“Jesus,” you muttered, pressing a hand to the deep V of your neckline where your heart still thumped. “Thought Val had sent someone to drag me back.”

One corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but something dangerously close. “If Val were going to send anyone, it wouldn’t be me.”

A beat passed and you anxiously watched him.

“Relax. I’m hiding too.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the admission. Your head dipped as you glanced down at how you were sitting, and tried to subtly pull some of your skirt back over your thighs where the fabric had ridden up. “Bucky Barnes, party fugitive… didn’t expect that.”

His gaze lingered on you a beat too long before he stepped inside and let the door click shut behind him. “More common than you’d think.” He admitted it as if it were a guilty confession. He leaned a shoulder against a tower of boxes, watching you with that steady, unreadable look that always felt like it saw more than it should.

You chuckled, feeling yourself burn up under his gaze as you eased back onto your perch. “Guess that makes two of us.”

An awkward silence washed over both of you, filled only by the muffled party noise. You searched your memory for another time the two of you had been alone like this and came up empty. The thought sent a flicker of heat to your cheek, and you ducked your head again, pretending to fuss with the stubborn buckle.

“Something wrong with it?” His voice was closer now.

You jumped when you looked up—he’d crossed the room without a sound.

“The buckle….the buckles bent.” You stuttered, clearing your throat as you gave your foot a pathetic little wiggle. “Cheap metal. Or maybe I’m just cursed.”

“Let me see.”

Before you could protest, he lowered himself onto the boxes beside you. The cardboard dipped under his weight, bringing his shoulder almost flush with yours. His scent—cologne and faint leather filling your senses.

“Foot,” he instructed quietly, extending a hand. The vibranium plates caught the light in muted golds and blues.

You swallowed hard, mouth opening and closing as you fought for an excuse or reason not to, but came up empty. Heat crawled up your neck as you placed your leg across his lap. His cool fingers slid beneath your calf, steadying your leg, while the warm flesh of his other hand bracketed your shin. You felt every point of contact, his calloused palm against bare skin, the faint vibration of hidden mechanics within the vibranum as he thumbed the bent clasp back into place. It made you jump, just enough for his grip to tighten.

“Hold still,” he murmured, and you followed his command, lungs empty.

The room shrank to the sound of his breathing and the slow, deliberate press of his thumb. The buckle yielded with a clean snap.

“Good as new,” he hummed, but didn’t move his hand.

The metal plates cupped your ankle, thumb tracing the curve of your shin as though testing the smoothness of the skin. Slowly, almost lazily, his fingers slid higher, brushing the edge of your knee. A shiver climbed your spine, betraying you before you could hide it. For a breath, you could’ve sworn the air between you tightened.

Your pulse thundered.

He looked up, eyes darker now, mouth parting as if to speak—

“Where the hell are they?” Val’s voice rang down the hallway, the unmistakable click of her heels following suit. “Honestly, where do they disappear to every time I need them?”

You both jolted upright.

“Shit,” you hissed, and without thinking, gripped his wrist. There were little to no hiding spots in the room, not with it being practically bare except for the stacks of boxes and crates. Your only hiding spot loomed to your left, a tall, free-standing cedar wardrobe. Before either of you could process your actions, you yanked the door open and dragged Bucky in after you.

He didn’t protest as you both crammed inside, bodies pressed from shoulder to knee, the dusty scent of old clothes wrapping tight around you as you shoved the door shut just before the hallway light spilt in.

A soft, involuntary giggle escaped you, quickly swallowed by his palm as he clamped a gentle hand over your mouth. His other arm braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in.

Val’s footsteps paused outside. The door handle rattled once. You held your breath, Bucky’s palm firm and cool against your lips, his chest rising steady against your back. After a tense beat, the handle released, and Val’s voice retreated down the hall in a huff.

“Unbelievable.”

The silence left behind was electric.

Bucky slowly lowered his hand, the faintest brush of his fingers grazing your jaw. Neither of you moved, the heat of his body pressing through the thin fabric of your dress. A quiet laugh trembled out of you, shaky and breathless. He answered with a low rumble of amusement, though his eyes never left yours.

When you finally dared to process your position, you truly realised how close he was—nose inches from yours, his breath a slow heat on your cheek. The laugh died in your throat. Neither of you moved.

Then, abruptly, he straightened, the spell breaking with a sharp inhale. He nudged the door open and slipped out first, his usual composure returning, though a faint pink hue brushed the tips of his ears.

“See you back out there,” he murmured, voice a touch rougher than before.

 

—

The wardrobe seemed to shrink with every breath. Cedar walls pressed closer, coats brushing your arms like restless hands. You shifted, just a tiny adjustment to ease the cramp in your knee, trying to find space that wasn’t there. Every movement dragged you nearer to him, chest to shoulder, thigh to thigh, until there was no mistaking the heat bleeding off his body.

“Not half as unpredictable, huh?” you whispered, partly to break the silence, partly to smother the pulse hammering at your throat.

Bucky tilted his head toward you, the faintest shadow of a grin touching his mouth. Even in the dark you felt the weight of his gaze. “You prove me right more often than you’d think.”

“Huh, You really think you’ve got me all figured out?” You challenged.

“Maybe.” His voice was rough, like gravel rolling over steel. Too low for anyone outside the wardrobe to hear, too close for you to pretend like it didn’t curl down your spine.

Your laugh came out softer than you meant, threaded with nerves. “Pretty cocky for someone hiding in my spot.”

You heard him suck his teeth with a small chuckle.

“Cocky,” he echoed. “Or maybe I’m just observant.”

You tried to summon a quip sharp enough to sever the tension, but the words fizzled as his arm shifted—casual, maybe—but the brush of his knuckles against your wrist felt anything but. Just a touch, the barest drag of skin on skin, yet it sent heat flooding through you.

You didn’t move away.

It was ridiculous, standing there in the dark, pretending not to notice the way your heartbeat had gone feral. You wondered, fleetingly, if he could hear it, if the silence were loud enough to betray you. And maybe he did, because as you leant back instinctively, spine pressing against the back panel, he followed that inch without hesitation.

Your throat went dry.

Your silence must’ve given you away. His gaze dropped, snagging briefly on your mouth before snapping back up as if he hadn’t meant to look.

And then—god help you—his knuckles brushed your wrist again. Not an accident this time. Slow, deliberate. The feeling of it rolled through you and made your breath stutter.

“Bucky—”

It came out as a warning, but it didn’t sound like one.

“Yeah?” His whisper rasped, smoke and frayed restraint.

The wardrobe might as well have been collapsing. Everything was pressing in until the only air left was the kind you had to steal from each other.

And you did.

One breath, you were staring at him like the ground had vanished beneath you. The next, his mouth was on yours—hard, desperate, all the months of denial funnelled into a single, breathless crash. His hand caught the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your ribs ached against his chest. There was nothing cautious in it, nothing restrained. Just the dizzying reality that you had finally crossed the line you’d been circling for too damn long.

The wardrobe shuddered as his mouth slanted over yours with a force that made your head knock the wall, coats swaying like startled witnesses. Your gasp broke against his lips just long enough for his tongue to sweep against yours. White-hot ricocheted through you, the cool of vibranium splayed low at your hip, dragging you forward until there was no space left.

“Fuck—” you breathed, the word melting between sloppy kisses.

He groaned, low and guttural. It vibrated straight down your spine, and he deepened the kiss like he’d been starving for it. Stubble scraped your jaw and chin. Your hands, useless until now, finally found him. You clutched at the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers skimming down to the taut muscle beneath. He exhaled sharply at the contact, his whole body tightening, as if restraint hung by a single thread.

The wardrobe creaked, a hinge whining in protest.

Neither of you cared.

He broke from your mouth only to trail along your jaw, down the column of your throat, teeth grazing just enough to draw a gasp that melted into a whimper as his tongue soothed the spot.

“Bucky,” you repeated, half warning, half plea. You clutched his shoulders now, nails catching the fabric. You didn’t even know what you were begging for—more? Mercy? Or just for him not to stop?

His grip tightened, holding you still. His voice came coarse against your skin, ragged with want. “You drive me fuckin’ insane.”

His words rattled through you, and before you could answer, his mouth was on yours again. Your mutual moans were swallowed in the heat, like he wanted to prove it. Claiming, tasting, and you gave back just as fiercely, matching the rhythm.

His hand had crept beneath the hem of your shirt now, calloused fingers splaying against bare skin, the cold edge of his metal thumb skimming the curve of your ribs. You broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, panting into the dark, head spinning.

“I thought—” you whispered, swallowing against the rasp in your throat, “—you didn’t like me.”

He laughed under his breath in disbelief. His nose brushed yours as he leaned back in, lips grazing your jaw. “You think I’d kiss you like this if I didn’t like you?”

Your stomach flipped, heat coiling low.

“Bucky—” you hissed again, half warning, half plea.

He lifted his head, eyes catching what little light filtered through, pupils blown wide. His lips were swollen and glossy, breathing uneven.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, the words brushing your lips. “And I can’t stay the hell away from you.”

His hand slid higher, up your side, thumb grazing the curve beneath your bra, waiting to see if you’d stop him.

You didn’t.

Your head tilted back against the wood as his other hand slid lower and lower down your stomach. You knew where it was going before you even felt the metal press between your thighs, and your body betrayed you, arching up into the touch.

“Shit—Bucky—” you gasped, the words dissolving into a moan as his fingers slipped under your skirt and pushed your underwear to the side.

“Shhh,” he cooed, mouth hot against your ear. “You’ll get us caught.”

The sound you made next was nothing like quiet as his fingers slipped beyond the thin lace, finding wet heat. Thick digits swept through your folds, a bolt of pleasure shooting through you as he grazed your clit. He swallowed your needy noise with another kiss, teeth clashing against yours as he pushed two fingers inside, stretching you. Your legs trembled, knees knocking the coats around you. You clawed at his shirt, finding only muscle to hold onto.

“You’re so wet already,” he growled, voice low like it angered him to admit it. “So noisy too, I thought you wanted to win this game?”

You tried to answer, but the sound snagged in your throat as a strangled whimper. Panic and want tangled so tightly in your chest your couldn’t tell them apart. Bucky’s hand slid away only long enough to catch the band of your underwear and drag it down the smooth line of your thighs.

You wordlessly obliged, a hand gripping his shoulder as both of you awkwardly manoeuvred in the tight space.

The wardrobe was too small for anything graceful. You hip knocked his ribs as you braced against him. He bent lower, fingers tracing down the back of your legs as the fabric resisted, snagging at your knees. You bit back a breathless laugh, part nerves, part thrill.

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice vibrating against your skin. His hand steadied your calf, palm hot where it curved beneath your knee. The other worked the delicate fabric over the arch of your food and the heel of your shoe.

By the time the thin scrap of lace slid free, your chest was rising too fast. You pressed harder against the wooden panel, bare and dripping beneath your skirt.

“Open.” he ordered.

You drew in a startled breath, eyes wide, and parted your lips before you could think better of it. With a smirk, he pressed the balled scrap of fabric into your mouth as a makeshift gag, his knuckles grazing your cheek in the process. The taste of yourself hit your tongue, shame, excitement and heat roaring in your stomach. Your body clenched around nothing, desperately craving the return of his touch.

“Better,” he murmured, smug. His hand returned with deliberate precision, tracing slow, deliberate patterns along the inside of your thigh. You whimpered as his fingers slid back inside you with little warning. With better access now, he was merciless, curling deep. His palm ground against your clit, sending shocks through you with every pump.

You writhed against the wood, muffled sounds spilling around the balled-up fabric. Your fingers clutched at his back, sliding under the hem of his shirt until felt the hard plane of muscle beneath. His breath caught as you raked your nails down his back. His mouth latched onto your throat, sucking and biting hard enough to leave bruises in his wake.

Your hips bucked into his palm, shameless now, chasing every rough curl of his fingers. Your cries were muffled, teeth sinking into the soaked fabric between your lips, eyes squeezed shut as the coil of pleasure built in your gut. Every nerve ending was on fire, the wardrobe filled with the sounds of your muffled whimpers. His fingers moved impossibly fast, curling and pressing with an intensity that had you seeing stars.

“Bucky—please…” you gasped, choked by the fabric, every word a tremor.

His breathing was ragged, chest pressing your back into the panel wall, jaw tight as he drove you higher, teasing, coaxing, refusing to let you slip into oblivion too soon. Your hips jerked, grinding against him, desperate for more, begging for release.

His voice was hoarse against your ear, and every word he muttered, every shift of his body pushed you higher. “God, you’re so close, aren’t you?”

You back arched instinctively. Tears prickled the corners of your eyes as your nails scraped along his shoulder blades, your legs trembling and barely keeping you upright.

You were teetering on the edge, pleasure coiling in your stomach, eyes rolling back as your body surrendered. A whine escaped your throat, soft and pleading, and Bucky caught it, groaning low, one hand pressed against your hip to steady you.

“I—I can’t—” you gasped, hips jolting, “so close—oh, fuck—”

And then—just as the pressure inside you was about to break, walls clenching hard around his digits—a sound spilt the air.

The storage room door had creaked open—

Panic ripped through you, and with an involuntary whimper, instinct took over. You vanished in a shimmer of displaced air, leaving only the faint disturbance of your breathless desperation.

Bucky’s head snapped towards the wardrobe door, eye flashing with irritation and amusement, but he didn’t falter. He had to act fast. His hand withdrew in a slow, reluctant drag before you could finish, your juices left smeared across your inner thighs. Your body spasmed against nothing, the climax slipping from you as you gasped out a ragged, frustrated whine.

The choked noise slipped past the fabric in your mouth before you could stop it.

“Quiet,” Bucky hissed under his breath, brows furrowed. His eyes cut toward where he knew you still hovered invisible against the wardrobe wall.

The door swung open wide with a cheerful slam.

“Ah, Bucky! Found you!” Alexei declared, grinning, completely unaware of the scene unfolding before him.

Light spilt into the cramped wardrobe. Bucky leaned casually into it, shoulder filling the frame, a picture of nonchalance that did nothing to hide the faint flush at his throat.

“You’re good at this, Alexei,” he said smoothly—too smooth. The faint curl of sarcasm in his voice was almost imperceptible.

Alexei beamed, oblivious.

“I know! I tell them all and they don’t believe me, I say ‘I am best seeker. Lena should know, we would play game when she was small!’” His voice faded as he turned back towards the hall. “Come, I need help to find others.”

Bucky let the wardrobe door swing shut with deliberate ease, unfazed, leaving you in the dark. Even as you heard his footsteps fade, the storage room’s door clicking shut, you knew, deep down, that this game was far from over.