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Dec 24, 2025

Winter Buckaroo

Summary : The New Avengers are having a holiday photoshoot. Unfortunately, you and Bucky have very revealing costumes.

Pairing : New Avengers! Bucky Barnes x New Avengers! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Tower fic!!! Holiday fic. Mutual pining. Fluff! Steamy but not outright smut. Kinda forced-proximity. Very brief mention of past trauma. Food. Set after Thunderbolts* (Let me know if I missed anything!)

Word count : 6.9k

Note : this is MCU Bucky inspired by Bucky’s new winter Marvel Rivals skin. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes had survived being forcibly rebranded more times than he could count.

But this might finally take him out.

He stared at his reflection in his quarter’s bathroom mirror, fist clenched so hard it ached.

Red.

So. Much. Red.

Tight red pants hung low on his hips, trimmed with white fur that absolutely did not help the situation. The cropped red jacket was open, because of course it was, leaving his chest and stomach completely exposed except for a stupid green wreath thing sitting around his neck like he was a festive chokehold away from HR violations. And finally on his head…

He lifted a hand and flicked the reindeer antlers attached to a winter-y hat.

They wobbled.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered.

Was he Santa? Definitely not.

A furry Santa? Possibly.

A poorly designed reindeer? Most likely.

He looked like he’d lost a bet to the North Pole.

His metal arm gleamed against the red fabric, with dainty little fairy lights wrapped around it.

He swallowed and looked away from the mirror, then immediately looked back.

Fuck.

Why was it so slutty?

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was going to hell. That was a fact. She’d handed every New Avenger a neat little red box like it was Christmas morning, smiling. Brand partners love a cohesive holiday aesthetic, she’d said.

So she had arranged a photo shoot.

Cohesive. Ha!

He dragged a hand through his hair, dislodging the stupid Santa hat attached to the antlers. Somewhere in the Watchtower, Yelena was probably laughing herself sick. Alexei would be thrilled. John would tease. Ava would disappear before cameras even rolled. Bob was probably gonna be awkward about it.

And then there’s you.

His eye twitched.

You were going to see this.

You, who already looked unfairly good in anything, who always looked angelic to him, who stood a little too close during briefings and held his arm when you patched him up after a mission. You, who he’d been not-so-secretly in love with for months while pretending he was totally fine and normal about it.

You were going to take one look at him and think he was ridiculous.

He let out a deep breath, pressing his metal fingers into the countertop. “Get it together,” he told himself. “It’s just a photo shoot.”

He straightened, rolled his shoulders, tried to summon Winter Soldier stoicism. Instead, the fur trim shifted and exposed more skin and definitely drew more attention to his abs

Fantastic.

He adjusted the wreath collar, then hesitated, eyes flicking back to the mirror. For a split second, he didn’t hate what he saw. The man staring back looked… confident.

He shook his head hard. No. Absolutely not.

You were going to ruin him with one look. Or one smile. Or one offhand comment like “Wow, Buck, didn’t know you had it in you.”

He grabbed his glove, tugged it on with unnecessary force, then paused at the bathroom door. His hand hovered over the handle.

“Just a shoot,” he whispered to himself again.

He squared his shoulders, and took one breath, before opening the door to go out.

—

The common room didn’t look like the common room anymore.

Bucky stopped in his tracks just past the doorway, boots sinking slightly into fake snow that had not been there an hour ago. Val, obviously, had transformed the entire space into a high-budget holiday set, with twinkling lights strung along the ceiling beams, garlands draped over railings, and a massive white backdrop swallowing the main wall. Studio lights were already on, warming the air. A Christmas tree glittered in the corner, overloaded with ornaments stamped with sleek New Avengers logos.

It was brand-friendly, as Val wanted it to be.

When everyone noticed him….

Whiiiiiistle.

Alexei was leaning against a prop candy cane taller than he was. He was dressed as a snowman, round foam padding strapped around his torso, a black top hat perched on his head at a crooked angle. “Well, well,” he said loudly. “Didn’t know Rudolph has… how you say it?” He squinted. “OnlyFans?”

Bucky’s ears burned instantly.

Yelena snorted so hard she nearly dropped the mug of cocoa in her hands. She and Bob were dressed as elves with green tunics, striped tights, and pointed shoes. Bob looked vaguely confused by the bells on his collar, while Yelena just ripped it off all together.

“I can feel the secondhand embarrassment,” Yelena said.

Bob, standing beside her , pushed his ears back up his head and winced sympathetically. “Uh. For what it’s worth, at least it’s… festive?”

“We’re all festive,” Ava pointed out as she stood near the lights, arms crossed. Her gingerbread costume was basically a pyjama onesie, brown with white icing patterns tracing sharp lines down the sides.

John Walker (Santa, apparently) snorted. He stood dead center in a red suit and white trim, not too different from his, except it actually covered most of his upper body. He’d flat-out refused the beard, so his face was on full display, chin tipped up with stubbornness. “Could be worse, Barnes. At least you’re not being asked to ho ho ho.”

Compared to his, why were their costumes so… normal?

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “I didn’t agree to this.”

Valentina, clipboard in hand, glanced up at him like he was a mildly inconvenient prop. “You did when you signed the brand contracts,” she said.

“But not like this!” Bucky said, pointing at himself.

“It was the only reindeer costume available on short notice,” she shrugged. “Holiday demand is high. Supply chains are fragile.”

Bucky stared at her. “It’s cropped.”

Alexei clutched his chest. “So tragic. So revealing. America weeps.”

Bucky shot him a glare that would’ve sent most men running. Alexei only grinned wider.

He shifted his weight, painfully aware of how exposed his torso felt, how the stupid green wreath collar framed his shoulders, how the antlers made him feel about six inches taller and ten times more ridiculous. His metal arm caught the light as he resisted the urge to yank the jacket closed, even though it wouldn’t have helped much.

Val snapped her fingers. “Places, everyone. We’re only waiting on one more.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

You.

He hadn’t seen your costume yet. He’d been trying very hard not to imagine it, because imagining you in anything festive had a tendency to derail his thoughts. He shifted his weight, boots crunching in the fake snow.

He opened his mouth to say something...

But then the doors slid open again.

You stepped into the room, one hand tugging self-consciously at the hem of your outfit, the other holding the red box it had come in.

Bucky forgot how to breathe.

The Mrs. Claus outfit was a rich crimson red that clung to you like it had been painted on. The neckline dipped far lower than was necessary, trimmed in white fur that emphasized every curve.

The skirt was short, sheer white stockings hugged your legs, disappearing into red heels as a black belt wrapped your waist, gold buckle gleaming.

You looked… unreal.

“Fan service much?” Ava chuckled, pushing off the light stand.

Yelena’s eyebrows shot up. “I see how it is.”

Bob coughed and looked at the floor.

Alexei laughed, “How is Barnes supposed to concentrate now?”

You laughed, half-embarrassed, half-disbelieving, then looked down at the tag you’d pulled from the inside seam.

“Val,” you said, holding it up. “Why… did you give me lingerie?”

You turned the tag outward.

Victoria’s Secret.

“The other ones just look cheap,” Val dismissed, already jotting something down on her clipboard.

Bucky swallowed hard.

You laughed and shook your head. You glanced around, mortified and amused all at once, tugging self-consciously. “Why… why does this feel illegal?”

“It’s not,” Val reassured, “I checked.”

Bucky wasn’t listening. How could he, when you standing ten feet away from him dressed like every unholy thought he’d spent months trying not to have?

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

His eyes betrayed him, dragging over the curve of your waist, the line of your legs, the way the fur trim framed your collarbone. He forced himself to look away, but it was useless. His mind filled itself with images he absolutely did not have permission to think about— your laugh, your hands, the red velvet discarded somewhere very unprofessional.

Get it together. Get it together.

You caught his stare anyway.

Your eyes flicked up, met his for half a second, and you smiled. You, apparently, recognised that he was also the same victim of slutty Christmas.

“Oh,” you said in a whisper. “Wow.”

He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“Don’t,” he said immediately, mortified. “Say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to,” you replied, though your eyes were still on him, from the antlers to the wreath to the bare skin he was suddenly acutely aware of.

“Okay!” Val clapped her hands once, sharp and commanding. “Listen up. Our brand partners want festive content, group shots, and maybe some playful interaction.”

“Playful,” Ava echoed dryly.

“You’ll follow the photographer’s direction,” Val continued. “Smile. Try not to look like you’re being held hostage.”

You moved closer to the group.

“You okay?” you asked him, voice lowering just for him.

He nodded too fast. “Yeah.”

Your eyebrows softened. “You don’t look stupid,” you said gently. “If that helps.”

It didn’t. Not really. Because now his brain was doing other things.

You smiled again, and straightened before he could respond, cheeks just a little pink.

Val checked her watch. The photographer adjusted his camera, lifting it onto his shoulder.

“All right, people,” the photographer called out, as the lights brightened. “Shoot starts in five!”

—

“Alright, New Avengers,” the photographer called after finishing his final preparations. “Group shot first. Let’s get smiles from everyone.”

Bucky took his place automatically, his limbs guiding him even as his brain lagged behind. He ended up just off-center, John-as-Santa anchoring the middle like an off-duty mall saint Nick, Alexei the Snowman looming cheerfully on one side, Ava the Gingerbread Cookie looking like she’d rather phase through the floor than smile, Yelena and Bob flanking in matching elf green.

And you… stood between Bucky and John. Mrs. Claus, apparently, belonged front and center with her fictional husband.

“Okay,” the photographer said. “Close in. Shoulder to shoulder.”

Bucky stepped closer without thinking. Your arm brushed his side. You glanced up at him, surprised, then smiled apologetically like sorry, didn’t mean to, even though neither of you moved away.

“Perfect,” the photographer said. “Now… happy. Like you actually like each other.”

Alexei threw an arm around Yelena, who stiffened immediately. “I love my team,” he boomed.

“Don’t embarrass me,” Yelena said without looking up.

John squared his shoulders and gave what was clearly his hero smile. Bob attempted the same and looked like he was in pain.

Bucky tried to keep it cool.

He really did.

But every time the shutter clicked, his awareness snapped back to you and the way the fur trim brushed your neck when you tilted your head.

It was wholesome, right?

“Great,” the photographer said. “Let’s do Santa and Mrs. Claus next.”

John groaned audibly. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” Val said instantly.

You sighed, rolling your shoulders. “This is weird.”

“I agree.” John, recently divorced and really not wanting to touch anything romantic within a ten foot pole (not even pretend-romance), leaned toward you as you both stepped into position. “Trust me, this isn’t my idea of fun, either.”

Still, Bucky’s teeth clenched.

You and John stood in front of the backdrop, framed by twinkling lights and fake snow. The photographer circled you like a director blocking a scene.

“Okay, John, put an arm around her waist,” he instructed. “Protective. You’re Santa. She’s, well, Mrs. Claus.”

Bucky’s metal fingers curled slowly into his palm.

John hesitated, then looked at you. “You okay?”

You shrugged. “It’s not like we’re making out.”

“True,” he shrugged, setting his hand carefully at your waist like you were made of glass.

It still felt like a punch to the gut.

Bucky told himself this was ridiculous. John was his teammate. He was your friend, and you were nothing but professional. This was staged and meaningless branding nonsense.

But it didn’t matter to Bucky.

It didn't matter that John’s touch was clearly restrained, that there was nothing possessive about it. All Bucky could see was his hand on you. All he could feel was the irrational heat of jealousy curling in his chest.

John leaned in slightly to whisper a corny joke in your ears.

You managed to laugh.

The camera clicked, and just like that, it looked intimate.

“Okay, Mrs. Claus,” the photographer said, “tilt your head toward him. Santa, look down at her like you adore her.”

“Oh, come on,” John said. “That’s—”

“Just do it, Walker.” you said, resigned.

John complied. You looked up at him, amused, exasperated, very much not in love, but the angle didn’t show that.

Bucky looked away.

He tried focusing on the studio lights instead, on regulating his breathing, on the stupid antlers itching his scalp, on anything that wasn’t you and John. “It’s fine,” he whispered to himself. “You’re fine.”

The photographer repositioned you slightly, guiding John’s elbow, adjusting your angle. John leaned in a fraction more.

Bucky had to look away for the millionth time.

“Okay, great,” the photographer said. “That’s it. Santa and elves!”

“Oh yes,” Yelena said. “This is much better. Less… intimate.”

John released you instantly, obviously relieved. J “Thank God.”

Bucky watched as you stepped back, smoothing your skirt, catching your breath. You glanced over at him and smiled.

Santa-and-elves was chaos. Yelena latched onto John’s sleeve, demanding presents. Bob held up a fake candy cane. John looked confused, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure where to put them.

“Lean in! Laugh!” the photographer called.

Yelena cackled. Bob smiled nervously. John sighed.

Bucky watched you from the sidelines, watched the way you leaned against a prop table, arms crossed loosely, watching the madness with fond amusement. You looked… comfortable.

“Mrs. Claus and the elves!” the photographer announced.

You stepped back into the lights, Yelena immediately slipping an arm through yours. “We look badass, Mrs. Claus.”

You laughed. “We always look badass, Lena.”

The photographer encouraged movement: twirls, laughter, and playful nudges. You followed directions, smiling, the red velvet of your outfit vivid against the green of the elf costumes.

Bucky watched.

Next to him, John’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

Oh.

During a brief reset, when the photographer was checking angles and Val was making notes into her phone, John moved off the set and passed by him, adjusting the cuffs of his Santa jacket like this was just another casual moment between teammates.

He didn’t look at Bucky when he spoke.

“Relax,” John whispered under his breath. “I’m not competition.”

Bucky stiffened instantly. “Shut up.”

John’s mouth twitched, barely suppressing a grin. “Just letting you know.”

Bucky shot him a glare. “You’re not funny.”

Before John could respond, Ava’s voice cut in, dry and curious.

“What are we talking about, boys?” she said, stepping closer, gingerbread costume flawless as ever.

“Nothing,” John said without hesitation. “Just Bucky’s very obvious crush on—”

“Shut up!” Bucky snapped, louder than he meant to, drawing a couple of glances from the photography assistants across the set.

Ava’s eyebrows shot up.

She followed Bucky’s line of sight without missing a beat, straight to you, laughing with Yelena near the windows. Then she looked back at Bucky.

“Oooo,” she said.

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “You’re all unbearable.”

Ava folded her arms, smirking. “Please. You’ve been staring daggers at John for even being close to—”

John snorted. “I told you, man. I’m not—”

“Finish that sentence,” Bucky warned.

Ava tilted her head, eyes flicking between you and Bucky again. “You really thought no one would notice?”

Alexei’s booming voice floated over from the set. “Notice what?”

“Nope,” Bucky said immediately. “Conversation’s over.”

Alexei waddled closer anyway, foam snowman head bobbing. “Ah. I see. Reindeer has feelings.”

John clapped Bucky once on the shoulder as he walked past. “Hang in there, Rudolph.”

Bucky groaned. “I hate all of you.”

Ava glanced back at you, then at him. “For what it’s worth,” she said quietly, “she’s not exactly subtle either.”

Ava walked away before he could ask what she meant.

—

Eventually, the shoot rolled on.

“Elves, snowman, and gingerbread!”

Alexei plopped himself between Yelena and Ava, wrapping his padded arms around them both. Yelena sighed but didn’t move away. Bob and Ava repeated the same three poses they had all day. The camera clicked rapidly as Alexei struck ridiculous poses.

“Elves, snowman, and reindeer!”

Alexei clapped his padded hands. “Come, little Rudolph.”

“Don’t call me that,” Bucky said.

Alexei ignored him, slinging an arm around his shoulders, as Ava just stood there. The camera clicked as Alexei pretended to guide him forward, like he was leading a sleigh with Ava as a passenger.

“Perfect,” the photographer laughed. “Don’t change a thing.”

And then…

“Alright,” the photographer said, checking his list. “Last one… Reindeer and Mrs. Claus.”

You looked at him. Then at Bucky.

“Oh,” you said. “So this is the one you’re selling to playboy, huh, Val?”

She didn't even try to deny it.

Bucky stepped forward, brain lagging behind his body as he took his place across from you. Up close, the absurdity of the situation became painfully clear: the two most ridiculously revealing outfits on the team had also somehow ended up being shot together.

It would’ve been innocent, if not for the fact that his jacket and your dress refused to cover anything.

The photographer’s grin widened. “Okay. This one’s gotta be cute. Wholesome.”

John barked an incredulous laugh from the sidelines, clearly amused at the blatant lie.

You shifted your weight, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. “What exactly do you want us to do?”

The photographer glanced down at his list— that Val gave to himself.

“Mrs. Claus feeding the reindeer a carrot.”

There was a half-second of silence.

Then…

“Oh my god,” Yelena said.

Alexei wolf-whistled loudly. “Yes! Feed him!”

“A carrot?” you repeated, wide-eyed.

The photographer handed you the plastic. “Hold it out to him, like he’s a good little reindeer.”

Bucky closed his eyes briefly.

But the photographer was not done. “Make it cute,” he held it out encouragingly. “Like— aww.”

You stepped closer anyway, your arm extended between you, the carrot pinched between your fingers.

“Oh my god, Buck,” you whispered with a little giggle. “I’m so sorry.”

He opened his eyes and met yours.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I hate this.”

Except that was a lie.

Because the way you looked with red velvet hugging every curve, fur trim dusted with glitter, was doing things to him that absolutely should not be happening on a professional set.

He tried not to stare. It wasn’t really working.

You lifted the carrot a little higher.

Bucky leaned in.

The camera clicked.

“WOO!” Alexei howled.

Bob chuckled. “This is definitely the ad.”

Another click.

You were standing too close now, close enough that he could feel your warmth, close enough that the pose stopped looking innocent and started looking… intentional.

“Hold it,” the photographer said, trying, and failing, not to chuckle. “That’s perfect.”

Ava let out a sharp whistle. “Someone’s getting a bonus.”

Bucky’s face burned. Yours probably matched.

Bucky forgot where he was for half a second. Forgot the team, the lights, the fact that this was supposed to be family-friendly. All he could see was your eyes flicking to his exposed skin, then back up like you were mentally screaming don’t.

The camera kept clicking.

“Okay, okay,” the photographer said. “We’ve got it. We’ve definitely got it.”

One final shutter snap.

“And… that’s a wrap!”

—

An hour later, the Watchtower was oddly quiet.

The studio lights in the common room had been dimmed, the fake snow half-trampled, props scattered like the aftermath of a very strange holiday party. Val had disappeared into a conference room with the photographer and his laptop, demanding “No one changes until I say so” on her way out, just in case they needed to reshoot a couple of shots.

So everyone stayed in costume.

Alexei had claimed the couch, still fully Snowman, snoring loudly with his foam head tilted at an unsafe angle. Yelena and Ava had found themselves on one of the side lounges, arguing about whether a candy cane counted as a weapon. Bob had vanished to read his book in silence. John had retreated to the gym, saying something about “getting a lift in” while still very much dressed as a beardless Santa.

Which left… the kitchen.

You stood barefoot on the cool tile, skirt riding halfway up your ass because of course it was, absently eating cereal straight from the box like a raccoon who’d struck dumpster gold. You had no bowl or milk. Just handfuls of sugar-coated crunch disappearing into your mouth while you stared out the window at the distant city lights.

You didn’t hear Bucky at first.

He entered quietly, antlers slightly askew, jacket still open because there was no point pretending it had the ability to even close at all.

He stopped in the doorway.

You noticed him only when you went to grab another handful and froze mid-reach.

“Oh,” you said around a mouthful. “Hey, Bucky.”

“Hi,” he replied.

Then he nodded at the cereal box in your hands. “Uh… you just… raw-dogging cereal now?”

You swallowed. “I think my dignity is still somewhere in the set.”

That got a laugh out of him.

He stepped farther into the kitchen, leaning back against the counter across from you, arms folding loosely. The wreath collar shifted with the movement, sliding just enough to be annoying. You very deliberately kept your eyes on the cereal box instead of him.

You put a mouthful in again.

Crunch.

Bucky watched you for a second, then cleared his throat.

You looked up. “Yeah?”

He gestured vaguely with his flesh hand, like he wasn’t entirely convinced this was a reasonable request. “Can I have some of those?”

You blinked. “The cereal?”

He nodded, a little sheepish. “Yeah.”

You snorted. “You want a bowl?”

“No,” he said, then hesitated. “I mean, only if you’re getting one too. Otherwise this seems… inefficient.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and tipped the box toward him. “Be my guest, Rudolph.”

He rolled his eyes, but reached in anyway.

“Huh.” He popped a few pieces into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I can’t believe I’ve never done this before..”

“Told you,” you said.

You shifted, leaning your hip against the counter, ending up closer than you’d been before without really deciding to. The kitchen felt smaller now, less like a shared space and more like a moment.

Bucky chewed, then glanced down at himself. “This is the lowest point of my life.”

You looked him over, antlers, fur trim, open jacket, cereal crumbs probably about to land on his abs. “Hard disagree.”

He glanced up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said lightly. “You’ve survived worse than eating dry cereal in a slutty reindeer costume.”

That earned another laugh.

You ate in companionable silence for a few moments, passing the cereal box back and forth. It felt oddly domestic… and Bucky would never complain about spending time with you.

Eventually, he spoke again. “I was worried,” he said.

You tilted your head. “About what?”

“That you’d see me like this and think I was… I don't know. A joke.”

Your eyebrows furrowed immediately. “Bucky.”

“It’s hard enough being taken seriously in holiday costumes.” He shrugged, “Add the crop top and—”

You gently nudged the cereal box toward him again. “You don’t look stupid.”

He took another handful, glancing at you. “No?”

“No,” you said simply. “You got stuck doing a ridiculous assignment and handled it anyway. Like me.”

That earned a small smile.

Your phone ping notification went off.

It was Val.

“‘Still reviewing,’” you read out the message.

Bucky groaned, tipping his head back.

“Well,” you said with a mouthful. “Guess we’re stuck.”

Bucky reached for the cereal again,

“Yeah,” he said, relaxed. “Guess we are.”

—

Half an hour later, the kitchen still smelled faintly like sugar and stale coffee, so nothing really changed.

You were perched on the bar stools now. Bucky, at one point, had laid down on the counter, legs dangling off the edge.

At some point, you’d both stopped keeping track of whose turn it was to hold the cereal box. By the time the last crumbs were gone, the cardboard was pliable from warm hands and folded in on itself, abandoned on the counter like it had served its purpose and bowed out gracefully.

You shook it once, upside down, just to be sure.

Nothing came out.

“Wow,” you said. “We really committed.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. Rolling to his side. “That box never stood a chance.”

You nudged it toward him. “Tragic. Gone too soon.”

He flicked it into the recycling without looking, a practiced motion, then leaned back again, except this time, he misjudged the space. His head bumped the marble surface, his neck bent at an awkward angle, and he grimaced. “Ow. Okay.”

You glanced over. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he said, then paused, honest. “No. My neck hurts.”

He shifted, trying to lie flatter on the counter, but the edge pressed uncomfortably into the base of his skull. He sighed, frustrated, antler-hat wobbling again.

You watched him struggle for a minute longer than necessary.

Then, without really thinking it through, you scooted yourself up onto the counter next to him and patted your lap like it was the most obvious solution in the world.

“Here,” you teased. “Before you end up needing medic, old man.”

His eyes darted from your face to your lap and back again, brain visibly buffering. “Are you sure?”

You shrugged. “Why not?”

He hesitated for half a second longer (purely for appearances) then carefully lowered himself so his head rested against your thigh. He adjusted once, then let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s… better.”

Your thighs were warm, even through the ridiculous fur trim, tilting his antlers at a crooked angle. He’d decided that he did not care how slutty the costume felt anymore. The counter was cold, the day had been long, and your lap was… well.

This was fine. This was normal.

Platonic, he told himself.

Definitely platonic.

You’d curled up together after missions before, while blood was still drying as adrenaline crashed, just needing another human to confirm you were both still alive.

This was nothing. This was just… the kitchen equivalent to that.

He settled, one arm draped loosely over his bare stomach, the other tucked close so his metal hand wouldn’t dig into anything as the stupid wreath collar shifted and tickled your wrist.

You adjusted, sliding a hand beneath his head just enough to give him better support.

His brain absolutely did not need to notice how your fingers idly ran through his hair.

You were talking about something inconsequential, some terrible movie Yelena had made you watch, something involving sharks and a tornado, but Bucky was only half listening. The other half of him was busy registering how your thigh shifted slightly when he adjusted, how you didn’t pull away, how your hand stayed right where it was.

“Buck?” you said.

“Yeah?” His voice came out harsher than he meant it to. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah, I’m listening.”

You smiled down at him, skeptical but amused. “You went silent.”

“Just tired,” he said, “Long day.”

“That’s fair.” You shifted again, giving him a little more room, and he nearly melted straight through the counter. “You did great, by the way.”

He scoffed. “I fed on a carrot like a petting zoo animal.”

“You survived corporate humiliation,” you corrected.

He scoffed, eyes closing for just a second. “Put it on my résumé.”

You smiled, thumb brushing absently along his temple.

For a moment, it was easy to forget his unbearable crush on you. It was easy to forget the tension. It was easy to forget the way his chest tightened whenever you smiled at him.

“This is nice,” you admitted.

He opened one eye. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He let it close again. “I could get used to being your emotional support reindeer.”

You laughed. “You’re doing great so far.”

His mouth curled into a soft smile, the kind he didn’t use often.

And then… ping.

Your phone vibrated on the counter beside you.

You glanced down, looking at a group message from Val. There were about 20 messages at a time.

“Oh,” you said. “I think it’s the photos.”

Bucky’s eye cracked open again. “Already?”

“She said she sent previews,” you replied, picking up your phone. “Probably wants notes.”

He groaned dramatically and shifted slightly in your lap. “I’d rather not see them.”

You laughed. “It can’t be that bad.”

You unlocked your phone and opened the message.

The messenger from Val said, Might need some editing, but this will do.

Below it were the photos.

You tapped it.

The first few shots loaded. They were of the festive group photos. You scrolled, humming under your breath.

“Okay, this one’s actually cute,” you said. “Bob looks so nervous.”

“It’s his brand,” Bucky whispered, eyes closed again, because if he opened them he’d look straight up the curve of your— stop thinking about it, Barnes. “Not that it’s a bad thing.”

He was definitely thinking about it now.

You swiped.

Santa and Mrs. Claus.

You grimaced. “Ugh. This one’s… yeah. Weird.”

“Told you,” he said. “I don’t wanna see.”

You kept scrolling.

Elves. Snowman. Gingerbread. Alexei mid-laugh. Ava blinking mid-photo that could probably be fixed in photoshop.

Then… You paused.

Your thumb stilled on the screen.

“Oh,” you breathed.

Bucky shifted, “What?”

You stared at the image.

Mrs. Claus and reindeer.

You and Bucky.

On the surface, it was cute despite it clearly being fan service… Bucky eyeing the carrot as you tried not to think too much about what both of you were wearing.

But then your eyes drifted to a very different part of Bucky’s outfit.

His red velvet pants looked a little too tight in this one as you could faintly make out an outline of—

Oh.

Oh no.

Your heart slammed into your ribs.

“Bucky,” you said, voice suddenly unsteady. “I—”

He frowned slightly, lifting his head a fraction. “What?”

You swallowed. “Why… um.”

He opened his eyes fully now. “Why what?”

You hesitated, cheeks heating fast. “Why… do you—”

You stopped before trying again.

“Why do you have a—”

He sat up abruptly, pushing himself upright. “A what?”

You held up the phone, mortified. “Why are you… pitching a tent in this one?”

Bucky snatched the phone from your hand.

He stared.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

The red velvet did nothing to hide it. The lighting helped cast a shadow on it. It was unmistakable.

“Oh no, no, no,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s… no. That’s not—”

He looked down at himself instinctively, like the proof might have disappeared.

It had not.

“Oh damn it,” he muttered.

Velvet, it turned out, did not hide a blessed boner very well.

“I didn’t mean to look,” you blurted out, heat flooding to your face. “I swear, I wasn’t— I was just scrolling and then it was just… there, and I—”

Bucky stared at the screen.

You leaned over his shoulder to look, then immediately recoiled, mortified all over again. “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t— I wasn’t—”

He finally tore his eyes away from the photo and looked at you instead, face red enough to match both of your outfits combined.

He wanted to say something normal or casual. Something like it’s just a boner, bodies do that sometimes for no reason at all, because sometimes they really did.

Except this was clearly not no reason at all.

It was you in stupid borderline-lingerie, standing too close, it was there because of you earlier. And it was here because of you now.

And it still very much wasn’t going down.

So all that came out of his mouth was a helpless, “Sorry?”

Your eyes widened. “No, no, don’t apologize. I didn’t mean it like… I mean— I’m not mad. I’m just—” You waved your hand helplessly between you.

Before you could continue, your phone buzzed again.

And again.

You both looked at it like it was a live grenade.

Bucky didn’t even have to ask. He already knew.

“Group chat?” You asked weakly.

He grimaced. “Group chat.”

Another vibration, then a chorus of pings as if the universe itself had decided to pile on.

Alexei : Magnificent form, Rudolph.

Ava : PLEASE tell me that’s photoshop.

John : Dude

Bob : I knew it!

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his head back, antlers thinking lightly against the cabinet. “I’m going to fake my death.”

“Please don’t,” you said automatically, then winced as another message came through.

Yelena : Do we need to put him in horny jail?

“Oh my god,” you sighed. “What is this team? Middle school?”

“That is an insult to middle schoolers,” Bucky said miserably.

Your phone buzzed again. This time you didn’t even look at it. You just reached out and jumped off the counter, grabbed your phone from his human hand Bucky’s metal wrist without thinking, and tugged.

“Come on.”

He stumbled a half-step forward. “What- where are we going?”

“My room.”

“Why?” Bucky managed to choke out.

“Because,” you said, already moving again, pulling him along with you, “they are absolutely going to come looking for you, and if they see that—” you gestured downward to his crotch with your free hand, not daring to look directly, “—is still there, you will never hear the end of it.”

His brain short-circuited for a second. “Okay, I see your point, but—”

You hauled him through the doorway and into the hall before he could finish.

Your room really wasn’t far. You’d chosen it when you moved in, close to the kitchen, close to the stairs, perfect for midnight cereal runs and quick escapes when the common areas got too overwhelming.

You shoved your door open, tugged him inside, and kicked it shut behind you.

The lock clicked.

You released his wrist and immediately took two steps back, suddenly very aware of how small the room felt with both of you in it. Your bed was unmade, a hoodie tossed over the chair, a half-empty mug on the nightstand. It smelled faintly like detergent and sugar.

“Okay,” you said too quickly. “We can just… wait it out. Five minutes. Ten. Until it, uh. Goes away.”

He let out a humorless huff. “Yeah. About that.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes. “Locking me in here with you isn’t exactly going to help.”

You blinked. “Why?”

He looked at you, wondering how oblivious you must be, and if he really had to spell it out for you. “Because you’re the reason I have this in the first place.”

Oh.

Your brain scrambled for something to say, anything, but everything came out tangled. “I, I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t think—”

“I’m not saying…” he started, “I just—”

He stopped abruptly, like he’d already said more than he meant to.

“Is this,” you said carefully, “my fault?”

“No,” he said immediately. “It’s my problem. I just— probably shouldn’t be this close to you right now.”

You folded your arms, more to keep yourself sane than defensive. “Is that why you’ve been weird all day?”

His mouth twitched. “Only today?”

You, looking back at how Bucky’s been acting towards you in the last couple of weeks, gave a shaky laugh despite yourself. “Fair.”

You heard another notification from your phone, muffled where you’d dropped it face-down on the bed.

Bucky let out a breath and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Let’s just… ignore it,” he said.

You tilted your head, sitting on your bed as you turned off the notifications on your phone. “The texts?” you asked with raised eyebrows. “Or the thing you have in your pants?”

There it was.

Bucky groaned, and dropped down onto the edge of your bed next to you. He hunched forward, elbows on his knees, antlers dipping.

“Please don’t say it like that,” he said.

“You’re the one who said ignore it,” you replied. “I just need clarity on which crisis we’re pretending doesn’t exist.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Both.”

You chuckled, then sobered when he didn’t respond in kind.

He sighed. “We can just… wait. Let it pass. The messages will die down. My body will—” he gestured vaguely at himself, grimacing, “—get the memo eventually. We don’t have to make this a whole thing.”

You crossed your arms, skirt riding a tiny bit higher. “You’re very bad at not making things a whole thing.”

He glanced at you. “I’m trying to not make you uncomfortable.”

You put your hand over his thigh briefly, before abruptly pulling away after realising how close you were to him. “I’m not uncomfortable,” you reassured.

His eyes flicked away again. “You should be.”

“If it helps,” you said gently, “this isn’t… entirely one-sided.”

“What?” he said, barely above a whisper, trying and failing to process your words.

You swallowed. Your heart was hammering now, but you forced yourself to keep going before your courage evaporated.

“I…” you let out a deep breath. “For the past three months, I’ve been begging Val behind your back to put me on the same missions as you.”

“Why would you do that?”

You stared at him like he’d just spoken another language.

“Oh my god, Bucky,” you blurted out, more frustrated that you have ever been, and that's saying a lot. “You’re just as oblivious as me.”

He frowned.

“Like,” Your hands flew up as the words tumbled out all at once. “I think you’re hot, and this—” you gestured helplessly at his red velvet disaster of an outfit, “—this is not helping, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you for months, and now my brain just—”

You were rambling full-speed by now, panic-fueled honesty spilling everywhere. “And today with the carrot thing and the cereal and then the photo and I swear I wasn’t trying to state but also that’s a lie and I absolutely was and—”

“Uh…” Bucky said, finally catching up on what you were saying.

You didn’t stop.

“And I keep telling myself to be normal and professional but then you look like festive Magic Mike and I—”

Fuck, you weren’t stopping, were you?

So before you spiralled, he reached out and covered your mouth with his human hand.

You froze.

Then, embarrassingly, traitorously, a small sound slipped out against his palm. It was a startled, erotic moan born entirely from way too much pent-up tension. It didn’t help that you were very turned on by this whole thing, either.

Bucky went very still.

His eyes darkened just a fraction. “That sound,” he said, voice rough, “is not helping my… situation.”

Heat flared in your stomach.

“Sorry,” you breathed, the word muffled against his hand.

That was it.

Whatever fragile self-control you’d been clinging to snapped clean in half.

The second he took his hand away, you grabbed the front of his stupid wreath collar and shoved him backward onto the bed. He landed with a surprised huff, back bouncing slightly on the mattress, antlers knocking lightly against the headboard.

Before he could say a word, you climbed onto him and kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was months of tension, and what-ifs, of unfinished thoughts that you thought alone in your bedroom at night. For half a second, he froze, then his hands were on your hips, under your skirt, gripping your side like he was afraid you’d crumble if he let go.

Now, on top of him as your lips moved together, you could feel him very clearly. The velvet did nothing to conceal the pressure.

“Hmmph,” he muttered into the kiss, shocked but definitely enjoying himself. You pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against his. Your cheeks were burning.

“This isn’t helping either,” Bucky said, breathless, as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. He tugged urgently at the wreath collar, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside, then shrugged out of the cropped jacket.

He reached up to take off the hat with antlers on.

“Wait,” you said quickly. “Keep them on.”

"These?" He paused, eyebrows lifting. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Really?”

You nodded, suddenly shy. “Please?”

“You’re gonna kill me, Mrs. Claus,” he chuckled, but left them on anyway.

He kissed you again, slower this time, hands sliding up your back, careful even as everything between you felt urgent.

The bed creaked beneath you as he pulled you closer, forehead resting against yours once more.

“Hey,” he said hazily. He didn’t really mean what he was about to say, but he had to say it anyway, for appearances. “They’re probably looking for us. We should probably—”

You kissed him again before he could finish, rocking into him without thinking, and his finger dug around your tights like he might rip them off (not that you’d complain).

When you pulled away, your hands slid down his chest, over his stomach, until your fingers brushed the snowflake-shaped belt buckle at his waist.

You looked up at him through your lashes as you pulled back, heart pounding.

“We should. They’re probably worried sick,” you teased, unlooping the buckle, “but first, let’s take care of this, shall we?”

-end.

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extra note: This fic is basically MCU Bucky in this outfit.