Visceral Reaction
A one-shot. A little angst, a little comfort, a little kiss.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (gn? I think?)
Word Count: 4.8k
Summary: You’ve had a crush on Bucky for months, but he’s always with Natasha. So what else can you assume but that they’re together? When he finally kisses you, you have an unexpected visceral reaction.
Trigger Warnings: Mentions of cheating (in a 'how could you' way; no actual cheating); kissing; slapping.
Author’s Note: I wrote this when I was seeing an annoying number of cheating fics. I don't like cheating. I can't read cheating fics. I cannot even kiss another man in a DREAM, that's how much of a visceral reaction I have to cheating. And BUCKY DOESN"T CHEAT.
Masterlist
The kitchen smelled of toast and fresh herbs when you walked in, a strange, almost tender kind of domesticity that didn’t seem to belong in a facility brimming with elite operatives, bruised knuckles, and weapons-grade sarcasm. For a heartbeat, you almost let yourself lean into it, but the overhead lights cut too sharp against your eyes, dragging you back. Too early. Far too early for this much brightness.
And for them to already be here.
Natasha sat perched on the counter like she owned it, long legs crossed with the kind of elegance that looked unstudied but was probably deliberate. She looked maddeningly perfect in the most casual way possible, old SHIELD sweatshirt, black leggings, hair scraped back into a knot, bare skin unmasked by even a trace of makeup. At six forty-two in the morning, no one alive should look like that. But Natasha Romanoff did. Of course she did.
Bucky stood at the stove, moving with a quiet focus that felt out of place in someone who could break a man in half with one arm. Soft grey sweatpants, a t-shirt that clung like it had been made just for him, and hair still damp from the shower. He was poking at something in a skillet with the patience of someone who actually enjoyed the process. There was something disarming about it, him, in this soft domestic shape you almost didn’t recognize.
“Morning,” Natasha said first, her voice easy and smooth, lifting her spoon in greeting as though the kitchen belonged to the three of you instead of just them.
“Hey,” Bucky added, glancing over his shoulder. When he turned fully, his posture shifted, straighter, more aware, like you’d interrupted something he hadn’t realized was private until you stepped into it. “You’re up early.”
You shrugged as if it didn’t matter, moving toward the coffee pot like it was a shield. “Didn’t sleep.”
“Same,” he said, and for a split second, something in his eyes flickered, recognition, maybe, or just sympathy. “Want breakfast? I made extra.”
Your hand hesitated around the mug, betraying more than you wanted it to. “What is it?”
He grinned, quick and easy. “Attempted eggs.”
You forced a laugh that felt thin, brittle. “Tempting. But I’ll just do coffee.”
He didn’t press, only nodded once, but the weight of his gaze lingered. “Offer stands.”
Natasha stretched like a cat, flashing him a smirk. “You made those eggs so slowly, by the way. I could’ve fed an entire platoon in the time it took you to cook for two.”
“That’s because you cook like a drill sergeant,” Bucky replied, not even glancing her way. “You ever actually tasted your own omelets?”
“I don’t need to,” she fired back, unbothered. “They taste like victory.”
He huffed a laugh, low and warm, the kind that tightened something in your chest. Natasha gasped theatrically when he teased her knife skills, then launched into a playful accusation about a cook-off she’d supposedly won three months ago. His answering chuckle was quiet but heavy, sinking under your skin.
The banter rolled on between them, easy and familiar, and you tried to let it fade into background noise as you busied yourself with the coffee. Sweetener, cream, no stirring. Just something to hold, something to anchor you long enough to leave. The words they traded weren’t romantic, not exactly, but the comfort was undeniable, the rhythm too natural. Whatever it was, you weren’t part of it.
Your chest tightened with something you refused to name.
Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him glance again, like he wanted to say something, like he was waiting for you to give him an opening. His mouth parted slightly. But you were already capping the creamer, already retreating.
“Well. I’ll let you guys get back to… your breakfast,” you said with a too-bright smile, lifting your mug in a mock toast.
“Wait—” Bucky’s voice followed, a half-step forward, like he’d close the distance if you didn’t bolt.
But you were already turning, already halfway gone, letting the door swing shut behind you before you could hear what he might’ve finished saying.
*****
The common room was unusually still, like someone had meant to leave but hadn’t followed through. One set of lights was off, leaving the space in a muted half-glow, shadows pooling near the corners. The blinds hung halfway drawn, slanting faint bars of city light across the carpet. You stepped in expecting emptiness, your body already loosening in anticipation of solitude.
Then you paused.
Bucky was there.
He sat sprawled on the couch, one ankle hooked over his knee, a book balanced in his hands. The spine looked soft, worn down by too many reads, the kind of book someone returned to again and again despite already knowing the ending. His hair was damp at the ends, curling slightly. Training sweat or a post-shower rinse, you couldn’t tell, but it gave him an undone, unguarded look. His t-shirt collar was stretched a little off-center, like he’d tugged it on without bothering to fix it.
He looked up the instant you entered, as though some part of him had been waiting.
“Hey,” he said, straightening almost imperceptibly. “Didn’t think anyone else was around.”
“Sorry,” you murmured, hesitating in the doorway. “I can go if—”
“No. Stay.”
It came out fast, but not sharp. Just sure. Like he’d already decided before you had the chance to. He closed the book with his thumb pressed in the crease, a silent placeholder, and motioned casually to the other end of the couch.
Your hesitation was brief but heavy. Then you crossed the room, lowering yourself into the cushion. Not too close. Not too far. A careful middle ground, close enough to feel the warmth of his presence but not close enough to suggest anything more.
“Natasha’s not back yet?” you asked, your voice steadier than your pulse.
“Nope. Still in Berlin. Said the op’s dragging.”
You nodded, the words catching somewhere in your throat.
“She told me not to burn the place down while she’s gone,” he added after a moment, lips twitching. “So I’m reading. Very safe.”
The corner of your mouth lifted despite yourself. “You reading anything good?”
He tilted the cover toward you. Slaughterhouse-Five. “It’s weird.”
“That’s the point,” you said softly.
He gave a quiet laugh and nodded, like he’d been hoping you’d understand.
The silence that followed wasn’t strained. It was gentle, settled, the kind that pressed in around you like a warm blanket. You leaned back into the couch, letting your head fall against the cushion. The room hummed with its own small life: the HVAC sighing, faint footsteps from somewhere above, the distant groan of an elevator cable. You closed your eyes, just for a breath, letting yourself sink into the stillness.
“I was hoping I’d run into you,” he said.
Your eyes opened.
He was still watching, steady but calm, the book forgotten in his lap.
“Why?”
He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, but there was weight under it. “Just… wanted to.”
Something twisted sharp in your stomach. The words landed too close to the places you’d been trying to guard, and for a moment, you wanted to believe, wanted to believe he meant it the way it sounded. But assumptions were dangerous. You knew better.
The pause that followed stretched long, balanced on a fragile line. One small push, one word, one lean forward, and it could tip into something else entirely.
Neither of you moved.
His phone buzzed on the table. The sound fractured the quiet. He glanced at the screen, thumb brushing it awake, and you caught the name. Just a flash, but enough.
“Natasha checking in?” you asked, careful to keep your tone light.
“Yeah.” He set the phone back down. “She’s bored, I think.”
You nodded once. Of course she’d text him first. Of course he’d know when she was bored halfway across the world. That was their rhythm, not yours.
Your body moved before your mind caught up. You stood too quickly, words tumbling out clumsy. “I should go reset the gym sensor—it keeps tripping.”
It was a bad lie. You knew it. He probably did too.
Bucky looked up, brow furrowing slightly. “You just got here.”
You forced a half-smile, small and practiced. “I’ll catch you later.”
For a moment, it looked like he might say something, might ask you to stay again. But he didn’t. He just sat there, quiet, eyes following you as you turned toward the door.
This time, he didn’t stop you.
And you hated how much that stung.
*****
They were three rounds in, and Natasha hadn’t even broken a sweat.
Bucky ducked under a jab, pivoted, caught her wrist, and twisted, only for her to shift her weight seamlessly, her body flowing like water. In the next heartbeat, he was flat on the mat, driven down by a clean shoulder drop that stole the air from his lungs.
The thud echoed in the training room, bouncing off mirrored walls and padded flooring. Bucky stayed there for a second, his back pressed against the mat, chest rising in sharp pulls of breath.
Natasha planted her hands on her hips, looming above him. Her ponytail swung lazily against her shoulder as though the fight hadn’t required any effort at all. “You’re distracted.”
He grunted, rolling his head toward her. “No, I’m not.” But he didn’t make a move to get up immediately.
“You are,” she countered. “You’re slow. You’re thinking too much. You keep hesitating.”
The words struck sharper than any of her punches. With a sigh, he rolled to his side and pushed himself upright, sweat glistening along his temple. His body obeyed, but his mind felt heavier, stuck. “You’re just cranky because Berlin was boring.”
Natasha’s mouth twitched. “It was boring. This is worse.” She began to circle him again, measured, assessing. “Your head’s not here.”
“It’s here,” he muttered, swiping his forearm across his face. “Just… split focus.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You like her. So ask her out.”
The jab landed harder than her shoulder throw. His spine went rigid, shoulders tightening.
“I don’t—” he started, voice rough.
“Please don’t lie,” Natasha cut in, tone so flat it left no room for argument.
His breath left him slow, like deflating. “It’s not that simple.”
“It’s exactly that simple.”
They stood facing each other in the center of the mat, the air between them charged but silent. Natasha unreadable as always, Bucky caught off guard, feeling the weight of something heavier than combat pressing down on him.
“You don’t know what she wants,” he said finally, softer, like admitting it cost him something. “She barely looks at me anymore.”
“She looks at you all the time,” Natasha shot back instantly. Her voice had an edge now, not harsh, but cutting through his excuse like a blade. “You just don’t catch her because you’re too busy pretending not to be in love.”
Bucky blinked, thrown.
Natasha gave a small shrug, casual but deliberate. “She likes you. But she’s protecting herself. And you haven’t exactly been clear about your intentions.”
The words sank deep, not like a hit to the jaw but like a strike to the ribs, painful in the marrow, impossible to shrug off.
His gaze slid past her, drifting toward the window that overlooked the courtyard. He thought of you, how your smiles had changed. You hadn’t laughed with him in days, not really. Not like you used to. Everything between you had grown too polite, too even, like you’d built walls brick by brick, keeping him out while pretending nothing had shifted.
And it was his fault. He hadn’t said anything. He’d just lingered at the edges of your days, offering help, stealing glances, hoping you’d piece together a truth he’d never spoken aloud.
“Do you really think—” he began.
“Yes,” Natasha interrupted, cutting him off with finality. “I really do. You’ve still got a shot, Barnes. Take it before she writes you off completely.”
The silence that followed wasn’t the quiet of combat. It was heavier, threaded with inevitability.
Later, when the gym was empty and the hum of the ventilation echoed in the stillness, Bucky lingered in the shower room. His muscles ached pleasantly from the fight, but his chest carried a different kind of weight. He rubbed absently at the scar that traced down his forearm, the metal gleam of his other hand catching the fluorescent lights.
Natasha was right.
He couldn’t keep orbiting you, waiting for gravity to do the work.
He braced his hands on the sink and splashed cold water over his face. Droplets ran down into the sink, his reflection fractured in the mirror by streaks and light. His own eyes stared back at him, too sharp, too haunted, too afraid of something so simple.
No more waiting.
No more hiding behind timing or silence.
He would tell you. Or show you. But one way or another, you would know.
And he wouldn’t let you slip away without trying.
*****
The balcony lights were dim, a soft, low glow cast from recessed sconces that hummed faintly against the concrete. Beyond the railing, the city stretched out like a scatter of stars, windows flickering on towers in the distance. The night was still in a way the compound rarely allowed: no training alarms, no footsteps pounding the halls, no overlapping voices in the common areas. Just air and silence.
You leaned forward against the railing, both hands wrapped tight around the warmth of your mug. Steam curled upward in delicate wisps, vanishing almost instantly in the cool air. It felt like your thoughts, slipping away before you could hold them.
No one came out here this late. That was why you did.
The click of the door behind you made you nearly groan aloud.
Then came a low voice: “Oh… Didn’t mean to crash your hiding spot.”
You turned.
Bucky stood framed in the doorway, his shoulder pressed lightly against the frame, his hand braced as if he hadn’t decided whether to cross the threshold. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, veins along his forearm catching the dim light. Golden veins doing the same on the other arm. His hair was loose tonight, falling into his face in a way that made him look younger, almost unsure. There was something tentative in the way he lingered there, like he was waiting for permission.
“It’s fine,” you said, forcing your voice even as you turned back to the skyline. “There’s room.”
A beat of hesitation stretched, then the quiet crunch of his footsteps carried across the concrete. He came to stand beside you, not quite shoulder to shoulder, leaving just enough space for his presence to register in the shift of the air.
“What’s keeping you up?” His voice was low, careful, as if trying not to break the fragile quiet.
“Noise,” you said after a sip of tea. “None of it outside.”
His eyes flickered toward you briefly before returning to the horizon. He nodded, slow and knowing. “Yeah. That kind of night.”
Silence settled again, stretching without discomfort. You leaned into it, letting the warmth of the mug seep into your palms.
Bucky leaned forward against the railing, his forearms resting against the cold metal. “I used to do this a lot,” he murmured. “Back in Brooklyn. Sneak onto the fire escape. Pretend I was somewhere else.”
You glanced sideways at him. “Where’d you pretend you were?”
The corner of his mouth lifted in the barest smile. “Somewhere no one expected anything from me.”
Something in that answer tightened your chest, but you didn’t reply. The quiet that followed wasn’t empty. It shifted, from comfortable to charged, humming with an energy you couldn’t ignore.
Then he looked at you. Really looked. Not away, not fleeting. Just steady, like you were the only thing holding him in place.
You felt it before you turned, the weight of his gaze, the heat of it under your skin.
“What?” you asked, softer than you meant to.
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes traveled your face slowly, deliberately, as though he was memorizing details he feared might be gone tomorrow.
Then, with a voice so quiet it felt fragile, he said your name. Just your name. But it landed like both a question and a promise.
Before you could process, he leaned in.
Not slow enough for you to deflect, not reckless enough to blame on impulse. His hand brushed your arm, tentative, grounding, and then his mouth was on yours. Warm. Careful. Real.
Your body froze, your breath caught. For a fleeting heartbeat, maybe two, the noise in your mind went silent.
And then it came roaring back.
You shoved him back with both hands. Not enough to hurt, but hard enough to break the moment. He stumbled one step, confusion flashing across his features.
Your palm moved before you even thought.
The slap cracked through the night, sharp and undeniable. The sting reverberated up your arm.
Bucky blinked, stunned, one hand rising instinctively to his cheek.
You stared at him, your chest heaving, your face hot, your throat tight with words that refused to stay buried.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
His lips parted, but you didn’t give him the chance.
“No. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t look at me like you don’t know exactly what you were doing.”
He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, shoulders stiff, jaw locked, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that only fueled your anger.
Your hand trembled as you pointed at him. “You think I’d be okay being the other woman? You think I’d be fine being some secret you sneak kisses from when your girlfriend isn’t looking?”
His brow creased, confusion flickering there, but to you, it felt insulting, infuriating.
“I’m not stupid,” you snapped, your voice breaking under the weight of it. “I see the way you and Natasha are. The training. The meals. The missions. She touches you like it’s nothing, and you let her. You laugh together, you move like you’ve rehearsed it all. You’ve got this whole rhythm, these little inside jokes, and I’m just—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “I’m not blind.”
He drew in a breath like he might speak again.
“Don’t.” Your voice cracked, splintering. “Don’t you dare try to explain it away.”
Tears burned before you could stop them. Hot, fast, humiliating. You swiped at your cheek with the heel of your hand, hating the evidence, hating that he could see.
“I liked you,” you whispered, the words dragging out of you like confession. “I like you. And for a second, I thought maybe—maybe you liked me too. But then I saw how close you are with her, and I told myself no. No, he’s taken. So I backed off. I let it go.”
His face went still, stricken, like you’d just torn open something buried.
“You’re with her,” you said, voice trembling now. “And she’s… God, she’s Natasha. She’s brilliant, terrifying, gorgeous, all of it. Why would you do that to her?” Your throat tightened hard as the next words slipped out softer, broken: “Why would you do that to me?”
The silence that followed was crushing.
The sting of your slap still pulsed in your palm, grounding you in the heat of what just happened.
He hadn’t moved.
And neither had you.
Only the city lights blinked on in the distance, cold and indifferent, while the night held the two of you suspended on the knife’s edge of something that couldn’t be undone.
*****
His cheek stung, but not sharply, not the way a blow usually did. The pain wasn’t in the skin. It was in the echo.
The sound.
The sound of your voice, raw and splintered. Not just angry. Wounded. Betrayed.
That rang louder in his skull than the crack of the slap ever could.
For a moment he couldn’t move. His body, so conditioned to react instantly under attack, simply froze. He stood rooted to the balcony, breath caught, pulse heavy, his hand rising slowly, almost absently, to the spot you’d struck. His fingertips brushed his cheekbone as if to confirm it had really happened, as if the burn on his skin were easier to believe than the hurt in your voice.
“I’m not with Natasha,” he said.
It slipped out low, hoarse, the words scraping from somewhere deep in his chest. It was all he had.
You didn’t respond. Of course you didn’t. Your silence was louder than shouting. Why would you believe him now? You were already retreating, not with your feet, but in your eyes, in the rigid line of your shoulders. Already gone from him in the ways that mattered.
He looked at you, really looked, and that was the worst of it.
You believed it. Every word you’d thrown at him. You truly thought he’d done that to you. Lied to you. Used you. On purpose.
His chest cinched tight, the air around him shrinking until it felt like breathing through a fist.
“You thought…” He shook his head, disbelief twisting his features, like maybe shaking it hard enough could undo it. “No. She’s my friend. That’s it. That’s all it’s ever been.”
Still, nothing from you. No move, no word, just the distance between you widening in silence.
So he stepped back. Slow. Careful. Not to retreat. Not to abandon. Just to give you room, even if it killed him to put more space where he wanted none.
“You really thought I was dating her?” His voice cracked on really, breaking in a way he hadn’t meant it to. “All this time?”
You didn’t nod. You didn’t have to. The look on your face said it all, every wall you’d built explaining itself in one quiet devastation.
His jaw worked. He looked down, dragging a hand across the back of his neck, the familiar scar under his thumb grounding him in the worst way. His heart pounded, heavy and wrong, not adrenaline, not fear. Something worse. Something hollow.
“I thought it was obvious,” he said, half to you, half to himself, like admitting it only deepened the ache. “I tried to make it obvious.”
Memories rose unbidden. The morning in the kitchen when he’d offered you coffee he didn’t even drink. The way he’d lingered after training, waiting for you to leave so he could walk beside you. The clumsy attempts at jokes that Natasha had ribbed him for. The way he’d studied your face in quiet moments, waiting for the flicker of a smile that meant you saw him the way he saw you.
Every moment he’d thought you were only cautious. Every time he’d told himself you were waiting for him to stop being a coward.
And now he understood.
You hadn’t pulled away because you didn’t care. You’d pulled away because you thought you weren’t allowed to.
The realization hollowed him out.
His breath left shaky, uneven, catching in the quiet night air.
“I kept thinking maybe you just didn’t like me back,” he said, voice low, raw. “That maybe you were just being kind, letting me down gently without saying it. And I—” He swallowed hard. “I was too much of a coward to ask.”
His eyes found you again. There was no anger there, no fire, just devastation softened into something worse: sorrow.
“But now?” His voice dropped, almost breaking. “Now I don’t know what hurts more. That you never knew how I felt… or that you honestly thought I’d lie to you about someone else.”
He held your gaze then, letting you see it, all of it, the ache, the quiet plea, the breaking honesty.
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he whispered, the words trembling with conviction. “I wouldn’t do that to anyone. Not ever.”
The night pressed in around him, the city lights flickering indifferent in the distance, and still he stood there, heart in his hands, waiting for you to believe him.
*****
There was a long beat of silence.
It stretched out over the balcony, pressing between you like the heavy air before a storm. The night carried only the distant hum of the compound’s generators, the faint flicker of city lights beyond the railing. But all of that blurred into nothing beside the thunder in your chest.
Your heart slammed against your ribs, frantic, like it was either trying to claw its way out of you, or trying to answer his silence. Your palm still tingled from the slap, nerves buzzing as though your body didn’t know how to process the collision of rage, fear, and want that had all crashed together in one impossible moment.
Your chest ached, tight, as if breathing itself had become another battlefield.
“You’re not dating Natasha?” The question tore out of you like it had been buried deep in your lungs for weeks, jagged at the edges, heavy with disbelief.
He shook his head slowly, eyes locked on yours. Stunned, but steady. “Never have been.”
Something inside you cracked, sharp and small.
Your throat caught on the next words. “You’re single?”
His expression softened in a way you hadn’t seen before, less guarded soldier, less playful banter, more raw truth. His voice carried the weight of a vow. “Very much so.”
You blinked once. The world tilted. And then you moved.
No pause, no hesitation, no rational thought left to drag you back. Just pure motion, sudden, full-bodied, unstoppable. You closed the gap between you in a surge, like you’d been holding yourself back for years and finally, finally let go.
Because maybe you had.
Your hands shot up, fisting into his shirt, twisting the fabric as though pulling him down to you might keep him from slipping away again. The solid heat of his chest pressed against your palms, grounding and electrifying all at once.
His hands caught your waist, startled at first, a sharp intake of breath, but then they tightened, fingers curling with the same hunger you felt burning through you.
The kiss wasn’t clean. It wasn’t careful. It was heat and relief and punishment and promise all at once. Open-mouthed, desperate, more gasp than grace. His lips parted beneath yours like they had been waiting for this, not tonight, not by accident, but for a long, long time.
Yours.
The taste of him flooded your senses, dizzying, and you didn’t care about pace or time or restraint. You didn’t care how long it lasted, only that when it finally broke, it already wasn’t enough.
When you pulled back, your breath came ragged, your body flushed, your pulse still clawing against your ribs like it had no escape. You hovered there, close enough to still feel the warmth of him, still tasting him, still dazed by the fact that it had finally happened.
“I’m sorry I slapped you,” you breathed, the words uneven, your chest rising too fast. Your hand lifted almost instinctively, fingertips brushing the cheek you’d struck. His skin was warm now under your touch, not from anger, not from pain, but from everything that had passed between you. “I just… I kind of have a visceral reaction to even the idea of cheating.”
Your thumb lingered at the edge of his jaw, trembling slightly. The admission caught in your throat before you forced it free. “And I’m sorry for thinking you could be that person. For believing—even for a second—that you’d ever do that to me… or to her.” Your voice broke softer then, almost a whisper. “That wasn’t fair.”
Something flickered in his eyes, like relief and ache colliding all at once. He leaned a fraction closer, his voice quiet but steady. “I get that it may have seemed that way. But you need to believe me when I say—I’m yours. Always have been.”
His laugh came low, unsteady, a sound frayed at the edges but rich with something lighter, freer. His own breath still hitched as if the ground had shifted under him too.
“And I’ll take the hit,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours, steady and unwavering now. There was a softness there you’d never seen, something bruised but bright. “If that’s what comes after.”
The night air curled around the two of you, city lights flickering beyond, tea cooling forgotten on the railing, and for the first time in weeks, maybe months, the silence didn’t feel like distance.
His gaze locked on yours with a steadiness he rarely gave anyone. Steadiness that was trust, and want, and something deeper he didn’t dare name yet.
“Does this mean I can kiss you again?” he asked. His voice was low, roughened at the edges with restraint, with the need to be sure. “Or is that dangerous?”
The corner of your mouth curved slowly upward, this time not with hesitation, not with shock, but with certainty. A smile that was yours and only his.
“If your lips are unattached,” you murmured, your tone threading humor and heat together, “I’d very much like them attached to me.”
Something in his chest broke open at that, the laugh that slipped out was hushed, shaky with relief. He didn’t need to be told twice.
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