Latest Posts by twotablelamps - Page 4

Mission shenanigans 2

The aftermath of cuddling with Loki.

Wordcount: 2044

Pairing: Loki x f!reader

Warnings: reader is kind of in denial, Bucky "back in my days" Barnes, Sam and Bucky meddling, big brother Thor teasing, miscommunication

A/N: Oops my fingers slipped now there's drama?? All this from some cuddling? Sheeshhhh guess we're not done yet. See you in part 3? | divider credit: anitalenia

Mission shenanigans part 1

Your mind feels like it’s going a thousand miles per hour after sleeping cuddled up with Loki and getting caught by Bucky and Sam. It almost makes it seem like you should’ve opted to stay in your own damn bunk but it’s too late for regret now. 

It was a one time thing. It doesn’t matter. You and Loki have a complicated dynamic and you’re sure he’s not reading into things like you are right now – running through each and every past interaction with him, trying to piece together how this even happened and still coming up empty handed.

No. This is just some kind of mind game. He has some kind of motive. You bet he’ll throw this back in your face when he needs something. This is leverage. It has to be.

“You good?” Nat tilts her head at you from her seat as you’re grabbing a granola bar from the refresher/snack counter in the main area of the jet.

Bucky and Sam are at a table in the other corner with Bruce and Thor. They’re going over the new information that has come up about the mission during the night, but you don’t have to worry about that right this second. Since you’re paired up with the two of them, they’ll just fill you in later. Possibly before or after bringing up this morning's incident.

From what you’ve heard there’s gonna be a bunch of walking involved to even get to the bad guys’ hideout. Plenty of time to get caught up and for them to be their usual annoying selves.

“I’m fine,” You smile at Nat, trying to mask your overthinking. It always shows on your face all too well. The downside of wearing your heart on your sleeve – there will be questions.

“Morning!” Loki walks into the main area of the jet wearing a huge grin. If you didn’t know better you’d assume he got laid last night. But no. The two of you cuddled and now he looks like… that. Oh. Oh.

“Actually I have to pee!” You announce quickly, a little too loud, dropping the granola bar back onto the counter. Nat raises her eyebrow at you as you slip out of the room in a haste, unwilling to stick around to find out if you drew attention to yourself or to see Loki’s reaction to your outburst.

Yeah. Great way to play it cool. Way to go. And now you're out of a granola bar. You think as you groan to yourself, hiding in the hallway, leaning against the wall. 

And then Loki's there too. 

“You forgot your beloved oats,” He holds out the granola bar and the slight smirk on his face tells you, he definitely knows you left the main area because of him.

You snatch the bar from his hand. “I actually did have to pee,” You insist. Like hell you're admitting the truth to him. You're not even going to admit it to yourself.

“Oh, I'm sorry, were you planning to do that here? In the hallway?” 

You glare at him and walk to the bathroom. It's hard to believe you were cuddled up in bed with him a few minutes ago.

You shut yourself in the toilet and munch on your granola bar. As far as pathetic goes, this has to be it and this mission isn’t even close to over. How the hell are you going to deal with Loki for the remainder of it? 

–

Of course, the day only seems to get worse when you land and Sam announces he’s gonna hike with Loki and Thor, doing a piss poor job of keeping his plotting smile at bay. He was supposed to be with you and Bucky. 

You give him a glare but say nothing, however you will remember this. Nobody else seems to pick up on the strangeness of Sam switching groups at the last possible minute or if they do, they don't comment on it. The team then splits into three groups. Nat and Bruce head one way, the three amigos the other, while you’re now hiking through the overgrown forest with just Bucky as your companion. 

You swat at the mosquitos, making your way between the branches of trees and then finally find some semblance of a path where you don’t have to duck every two seconds. 

Bad guys sure do love to pick the worst hideouts. Why is it never something nice? Like a hot island where you could go for a dip.

“So… you and Loki…” Bucky breaks the silence, after you’ve been walking for a few minutes.

And there it is. You hope the ground will swallow you whole. “Bucky.” You warn. You don’t want this conversation to happen. At all.

“No, no, it’s just I thought you didn’t like him,” He raises his hands in defense, smiling. “Then again back in my day, they used to say those who fight, love each other. There’s a fine line between love and hate.”

“Oh my god,” You grumble and kick a rock as you walk, sending it tumbling in front of you.

“I mean what else am I supposed to think from the sight I witnessed this morning?”

“You better keep your mouth shut about it, Barnes. Did you already blab about it to the rest of the team? Oh god, I bet Sam did. Tell me he didn’t–” Bucky laughs at you as you freak out. “Stop it Buck! Tell me he didn’t!” You whine, looking at him pleadingly.

“Not while I was there,” Bucky reassures you. “But you know how he just loves to talk,” He teases.

“I hope I die on this mission,” You mutter, sulking.

“Dramatic much?” You can’t stand the amusement on his face. “Look it’s fine if you like him, I mean sure there was that whole New York business but–”

“Will you stop it?! I don’t like him like that! He offered to help me sleep!”

A snort half escapes Bucky. “Oh, is that what you kids call it these days?” He nudges you playfully.

“Just shut up and fill me in on the new info,” You roll your eyes. “And make sure we're heading in the right direction.”

“Yes, Captain,” He salutes you, grinning and you have to resist the urge to smack him.

– 

What you don’t know is that Loki is going through something similar as he, Thor and Sam move towards the location of the hideout.

“So you have the hots for little miss Captain,” Sam announces, grinning at Loki, who gives him a side glance.

“As far as I’m aware she does not like to be called that,” Loki replies evenly, he’s doing his best to mask his feelings. Involving other people would only complicate your already fragile dynamic.

“Nah, but Bucky agrees something about her just screams Steve, it's her facial expressions, man, you gotta watch out for that shit,” Sam muses. 

Loki scrunches his face from the comparison to Rogers. He does not have ‘the hots’ for a female version of Rogers, that would be absurd. No, you’re… you’re you. Painfully stubborn and you get impossibly mad when he teases you. And his attempts to get close to you have all failed, with the exception of last night. 

Sam throws his head back laughing “Oh, you’re down bad! You're thinking about her now!” and Loki is forced back into the present moment.

Thor looks to them in interest. “What is ‘down bad’?” He makes a show of doing air quotes as he narrowly avoids a branch hitting him in the face.

“It means your little brother here is in love with her,” Sam explains as he walks between them and clasps Thor’s shoulder. 

Thor contemplates for a moment. “He does act very odd around the little mortal,” He nods.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Sam exclaims, glad that Thor gets it. “And you know what else? Me and Bucky found them cuddled up in bed this morning!”

Thor looks at Loki, grinning. “Is that true, brother? Is the little mortal your lady now? Shall I notify mother?”

“It’s hardly any of your concern!” Loki snips, focusing on the path ahead. His skin is starting to crawl and he stretches his fingers, trying to keep his cool, but really all he wants to do is place a silencing enchantment on Sam. Thor too.

He retreats back into his mind once they start discussing something else and the teasing finally subsides.

–

Surprisingly, the mission goes smoothly. You capture the bad guys that haven’t left the hideout yet and make sure the place is completely clear. You already knew this wasn’t their main base anymore but there’s still data left around that you gather for evidence and intel on their other locations.

“Keep moving,” Smart Hulk grumbles as he leads the few guys in handcuffs out with Nat and Thor. You walk the other way. You’re doing one more building check with Bucky. It doesn’t seem like you missed anyone or anything. Then you run into Sam.

“Oh hey, hey! Check out this room,” He motions to an open door. 

Bucky shrugs when you look at him, seemingly just as confused as you are, so you walk into the room, expecting them to follow. You look around, there’s nothing out of the ordinary here. Just a bunch of tech stuff, computers on desks.

“Sam, I don’t get it,” And then the door slams shut. You spin around, now even more confused. “Guys?”

“What’s happening?” Loki asks from behind you and you jump. You turn and see him straightening behind one of the desks. He must’ve been crouched down before because you definitely didn’t notice him earlier.

It makes a lot more sense now why Sam fooled you into going into this room. It's because of Loki.

“Sam thinks he's funny,” You grit as you push on the door handle, when that doesn’t work you pound on the door. “Open it, Sam!” 

Nothing.

“Bucky, can you open the door?” You try, counting on him to give in quicker. You hear both of them laughing on the other side. “Seriously guys, this is childish!” 

“No, no, you two need to talk about your cuddling! If that’s even what happened!” Sam chimes from the other side.

Your face heats up. As soon as they open the door you’re gonna strangle them both. This is a nightmare. Loki clears his throat, drawing your attention to him. “You know, as much as it pains me to say it, he might be right…”

You shake your head at him, your eyes silently pleading him not to continue. His eyebrows pull together and something about this moment feels especially vulnerable. It’s in his expression and the way you feel like your heart is going to leap out of your chest. But you can’t possibly talk about this here, now, in the middle of a mission. You haven’t had enough time to think and you’re just not ready for this. 

His mouth opens and closes and then his expression hardens. Previous vulnerability gone, like it was never even there. “I understand,” He says, low. And you immediately feel regret. 

He walks to the door. “Gentlemen, you do still remember I possess magic, yes? And you remember the people that have crossed me, how they ended up?” He threatens, loud enough for them to hear and in no time the door opens. Loki slips out past them. 

“Loki–” You call after him but he doesn’t turn around, he’s set on getting away with quick strides. You glare at Sam and Bucky who are grimacing. “You just had to meddle!”

“It was his idea.” Bucky points at Sam.

“Was not!” Sam argues.

“Oh yeah? It was you who brought it up at the table this morning!” 

“Enough!” You yell, you’ve had it with them trying to push the blame when they share it. “You’ve just complicated things further! Stay out of my business!” You look between them as your blood boils. 

Regret and guilt seep into their features and they now look like children who’ve been scolded. Good. Maybe that’ll teach them a lesson about meddling in other people's affairs.

“We should- uh- we should get back,” Sam says awkwardly. 

“Let’s go,” You mutter.

more of my works

relinquish the crown: as long as i've known you pt1

Series Masterlist See my full list of works here!

Placement: Season 1, Episode 16; immediately after 'under one condition pt2'

Summary: Loki makes his affections for you known, and you tell your friends of the turn of events with regards to your impending betrothal

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 4.1k

Warning/s: themes of incest (he's adopted but still); Odin; very possibly inaccurate depiction of royal pre-wedding traditions [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: a good chunk of this is 'traditions old and new' (Prologue, Part 2) in Loki's POV; honestly at this point everyone's stressed out

There was no amount of preparation that could have readied Loki for the look upon your face as your perception of him was forcibly shattered and fundamentally changed with three simple words. He couldn't have possibly braced himself enough for the sight of you looking him up and down with growing abhorrence, all while shaking your head and mumbling No to yourself over and over.

"Yes," he said, now only a mere few steps before you. He figured now was as good a time as any to come clean on how long he'd harbored affection for you. "I've loved you for as long as I've known you."

Your bottom lip trembled, your brows scrunching together; another migraine had sunk its hooks into your head. "You've known who I was since the day we met," you said in a weak exhale.

"Yes, I remember, darling." His heart hurt seeing how your body physically rejected the endearment now, the sharp shake of your head as if you were throwing the word away. Or perhaps the last few moments so you could once more cling to denial. "You bested me," he kept on, taking another step toward you. Despite the dull ache he felt, he couldn't keep himself from smiling as he recalled the day in question. "And when I gazed upon your face, I knew. I was meant to be yours. And you mine."

You looked visibly pained recoiling away from him when he cupped your face. He could only imagine how overwhelming it must have felt having your every memory with him simultaneously torn down and repainted with the knowledge that all this time, every embrace, every kiss…had an underlying layer of lust. Of a more lecherous type of love.

"All those times…" you said in a frenzied murmur, your bottom lip quivering as your throat visibly tensed. As if your body were physically refusing to form the words. Your forehead tensed as well, and it was all the god could do not to reach over and offer you some semblance of comfort.

He was the last person you would take it from. And he had to come to terms with the achingly real possibility that it would be that way for the rest of your lives.

"All those times you said you loved me…you did not mean it as family loved family," you continued, your accusatory tone and guarded eyes piercing through him. "You--"

"I meant it as a man loves a woman," he said simply, surrendering to the new reality that now his affections were out for all to see, all to know. The rumors that the palace staff and the citizens of Asgard and beyond alike whispered amongst themselves would be confirmed at the announcement of your betrothal once you accepted the offer.

If you accepted his offer.

You could still reject it and tell him and your father to suffer the fate of the battle, and he wouldn't even dare hold it against you.

It should not have pained him as much as it did to see your features contort into one of rage, your skin reddening from the indignation bubbling to the surface. And yet it did, worsening when you chose to look past him after what he'd just confessed and chose to address Odin instead.

"The people will look at this union and see it for what it is. Sinful." You bared your teeth as you concluded, "Shameful."

"This was tradition for generations upon generations," the elder god attempted to reason with you. "Ages before even I was born, Y/N."

There was such barely restrained wrath in your face, in how you held your posture, that it gave all the gods in the room with you pause. Loki knew you were capable of violence; he'd certainly seen it enough times despite having known you for the shortest amount of time among everyone else in the room. Though never did he consider until right at this moment that you were capable of directing that violence towards any of them.

"There have been new generations since you rose to power!" you fumed. Your nostrils flared as the words spilled from your lips. There was a vein in the center of your head that pulsed furiously, and anyone who knew you well enough could see that you were suffering from what was undoubtedly one of the most vicious migraines to accost you.

If you had a weapon on you, you would have probably struck at the nearest unfortunate soul. In which case it would have been the very man that was the cause of your current troubles. And he would have more than understood if you were suddenly to decide that he deserved to be at the receiving end of your dagger.

That however, did not mean that the knowledge hurt any less, as memories crossed Loki's mind of the first days you knew each other. Particularly that first morning when you'd placed yourself in the line of fire to thwart an assassination attempt. What have I done to wrong the Norns so much that my relationship with the woman I am fated to has devolved so awfully? he thought to himself.

"They were not exposed to this depravity," you continued on. "They will see this union as something so base, so morally corrupt. They will look at the offspring of this union and think them bastards."

Was it wrong that there was the tiniest bit of hope blooming in the god's heart that your mind went to your future and your children with him? Most definitely. And yet he couldn't help himself -- the vision of a little girl with your long dark hair, scrunching her nose the way you once did, freely shifting between her Aesir and Jotun forms as she wished as she frolicked in his mother's gardens -- taking root in his mind, and making his heart ache as it sunk in how desperately he wanted that.

"And give them enough time and I assure you that they will look at me and think me a whore," you concluded, your chest heaving as you visibly fought against your current migraine. You made a motion as if to step toward him, your instinct to seek comfort from him making you even more irate as you fought against the urge. "What happens if I refuse?"

You refuse me, and you would be stuck with that shameful prince of Alfheim. He would take you away and you would never see Asgard again, he wanted to tell you. Instead, he chose to let you come to whichever conclusion you would find for yourself.

"What do you think happens, my love?" The endearment slipped out so easily, so naturally, it almost felt wrong for him to even attempt to take it back.

Tears welled in your eyes, and the god could almost hear the words that you willed to stifle in the back of your mouth. Demanding that he not call you such an abhorrent term. Screaming how dare he even think of calling you such in present company.

And yet instead of those words that would surely press even more daggers into his heart, you chose to answer your own question. "If I refuse then the terms of your relinquishment are unmet. If I refuse…the duel commences." The fat tears at the corners of your eyes finally rolled down your face, and once more Loki had to fight the urge to wipe them away. To pull you into his arms and tell you it was alright to just let your devastation out. To take it out on him, even, if you needed.

But all he could do was stand and watch.

"It does," Thor spoke, confirming your fear that these were your only options. A marriage that you viewed as immoral, or death. His…and in a way because of that spiteful child of an elven prince, yours. "Daughter, I am terribly--"

"You've given me an impossible choice," you cut him off, looking each of them in the eye. "All of you." You crossed your arms around yourself, as if trying to hold yourself back from completely lashing out and letting temper run amok. "Either I lose a part of my family…or I lose my life. My future. Signed away to avoid the bloodshed of new tradition."

If only it were that selfish, he wanted to tell you. I wish it were that simple, little Princess.

"Please don't view it so bleakly, darling."

"Well how else do you suggest I see it?" you seethed at the dark haired prince, your eyes widening in disgust as another realization planted itself in your mind. "Is this why you insisted that I never call you Uncle?"

Well, there's no longer any reason to hide it from her, Loki thought to himself. "In part," he answered you, your nostrils flaring at his admission. "Try to see it less pessimistically, I implore you."

He took a step closer to you, his hands raised with open palms, trying to show you he meant you no  harm. He was the last person in all the realms that would ever wish to inflict upon you any pain.

When you didn't flinch away from him, he continued. "You wouldn't lose your life. You wouldn't have nothing. You would have a husband who adores you. Who loves you with his entire heart." He tried to hold your gaze, praying to the Norns that you would hear the meaning behind his words when he asked, "Wouldn't you agree that you could do a lot worse than being wed to a man who loves you as I do?"

Is this not a better alternative than being shackled to that heathen from Alfheim?

A hint of understanding finally dawned in your features, clearly envisioning the long-term consequences of your refusal. The duel and the subsequent death, all in the name of determining an heir for the Allfather. The wedding and your inevitable departure from your home. The devastation and the misery.

Now it was up to you if those consequences were worth the refusal.

The next few moments seemed to drag on for hours. Days, even. As they all awaited your answer with baited breath.

And then finally you spoke, your words barely audible. "I accept your terms." Your words trembled as you fought back a sob, and you looked up at Loki with a cold, deceptive calm. "I accept your surrender. Only because I love my father. And I do not wish to see him live out his days haunted by the memory of losing you by his own hand."

Where there should have been an aching sorrow in his heart upon hearing your reasoning, there was only relief. She's accepted. She will be safe.

He couldn't help himself from taking your hands in his, hoping to steady their shaking. "I know it will take time but you will be able to find a way to love me, too."

Perhaps it was simply the hopeless optimism in his heart, holding on to the shred of possibility that the vision his mother had shown him months before of a blissfully married life to you, that pushed him to utter those words. Perhaps he still had faith in the knowledge that you two were fated for one another, and somehow your heart would find your way to him.

Even with your next words, he desperately clung to that faith by a thread. The very thread that tied your souls together.

"That's the tragedy of this all, I already loved you," you told him, wrenching your hands out of his hold with a sneer. "Just not in the depraved way that you do. But any affection I may have held towards you dies today." You averted your gaze from his and looked around the god to face your father. "You get to keep your brother. At the cost of your daughter."

With those words, you stormed out of the war room, your heavy footfalls echoing across the palace halls even long after you'd gone.

Hot tears continued to stream down your face and blur your vision as you navigated the palace halls, aimlessly taking turn after turn, trying to put as much distance between you and the war room as physically possible. As if you could escape the crushing weight of your new reality.

You had agreed to a marriage. You were betrothed.

To Loki.

There was a sharp pain at the back of your head, pounding away harder and harder with each step you took that brought you farther away from that wretched room. Worsening when you would pause even for a moment to process what you had just done.

It filled you with a cold dread knowing that you had verbally written off your family with that one meeting, and a burning rage immediately after knowing that they had essentially forced your hand. Surely not a single one of them thought you would take on this betrothal with open arms and a warm and welcoming disposition?

"Y/N?"

You turned your head to find your friends at the other end of the hall. It seemed your aimless wandering led you to the robe laundering facilities, to the remaining familiar faces that didn't make your heart hurt when you looked upon them. Halley and Narda hastened their steps, making their way to you with concern coloring their features once they saw the tear streaks and your red-rimmed eyes.

"My friend, what's wrong?" Narda asked, each of them taking one of your hands as you walked down the hall together.

"My dear friends, I am to be married," you said simply. There was nary a shred of excitement in your tone. You may as well have told them that you were to be executed within the hour.

They stopped abruptly in their tracks, their eyes wide and fearful as they shook their heads at one another. "Princess, you agreed to Prince Damien's--?"

"Norns no," you blurted out, answering Halley's question. "I'll gauge my own eyes out with my training daggers before I allow that heathen of a prince to marry me."

"Then who…?"

You motioned toward one of the stone benches, the three of you seating yourselves with you between the two ladies before answering Narda. "There was this abolished incestuous tradition within my family line, one that Odin rid us of when he'd chosen to go down the path that would lead to his marriage to my grandmother Frigga. In its place…a duel would commence in the event of more than one legitimate heir to Asgard's throne. It seemed that my hand in marriage was requested as a term of Loki's succumbence."

"You are to marry the god of mischief?" Halley squeaked, a pit forming in your stomach when you saw an eagerness in their faces. "Ohh, Y/N this is wonderful news, the prince adores you--"

"Hang on." You withdrew your hands from their grasp, your brows knitting together as another migraine came about. "You two knew about his lechery?"

"Well I wouldn't say we knew," Narda explained. "More like we'd surmised. Much as the prince is the god of lies, there was one truth that he couldn't hide away from any one of us to save his life. His love for you. We tried to rationalize that perhaps the tenderness we would see in his eyes was a familial sort of love--"

"But it was clear to just about anyone that he looked at you the way Narda looks at Fandral…and vice versa," Halley concluded. "He looks at you like a man in love, my friend."

Your face fell at their words. Were you simply so oblivious to what apparently anyone with eyes and a functioning mind could see? Had you truly subconsciously overlooked every gesture and every endearment that Loki sent your way in the name of blissful ignorance?

"B-But never you mind all that, Y/N," Narda spoke again, placing her hands on your shoulders and calling your attention back to them before you lost yourself in your mind. They'd surely known you long enough to see your tells before it became too arduous a task and they would need reinforcements. The most reliable of which was now called your betrothed. "We must strive to look at the brighter side of the situation. You need not marry that loathsome prince of Alfheim anymore, and you need no longer leave the realm after your wedding!"

"And much as this is not what you had envisioned as far as your married life goes," Halley chimed in. "We could still perhaps partake in some wedding traditions…particularly one where your bridal party gets to throw you a couple of celebrations before the ceremony?"

Much as you still struggled to come to terms with the betrothal, your friends had rather valid arguments. And Halley's suggestion began to lighten your mood even by the slightest. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

The silence in the war room was deafening, none of the men inside daring to break it after your understandably emotional exit. Odin seemed to be mouthing words to himself, surely planning away his next steps now that there was no longer any need for the horrendous duel that would have resulted in the end of Loki's life.

Meanwhile Thor held his head in his hands, the only sound filling the room being his deep breaths as he tried to calm himself. Impulsive as the elder god was in his youth, it seemed he didn't wish to say or do anything as rash as you had moments earlier.

"I sincerely hope you realize the gravity of what you've done," the god of thunder spoke, his eyes filled with a mixture of anguish and restraint. "This surrender of yours may have irreparably damaged my daughters relationship with not just you, but all of us."

There was the faintest voice in the back of his mind contemplating taking it all back, the god's heart splintering as the words you'd spewed his and Thor's way replayed over and over. That would be what the coming years, centuries even, married to you would look like. Perhaps even worse as your hatred would fester over time.

If he rescinded his surrender now perhaps he could still salvage what dregs of love and respect you had for him, and he could spend what time he had before the duel finding another way for you to escape Prince Damien's clutches. A way that didn't require you to be shackled to your father's brother, in a gilded cage of forced matrimony.

But he knew well and good that this was the only way to secure your safety. To ensure that you wouldn't have to live out the rest of your days in a loveless marriage that reduced you to barely anything more than an incubator for the elven prince's heirs. Even worse if that wretched prince decided to share you with his trusted comrades and his swine of a father as soon as you were given the dishonor of being called his wife.

Meanwhile the worst that could happen whilst you were Loki's wife had most likely already happened. His love would be unreturned, and the most he could hope for was a lick of civility. He would not coerce you into loving him, and for the most part he would make his best effort to refrain from showing you his affection so as to not add to your discomfort.

All that truly mattered was that he had successfully thwarted Damien's loathsome plans to turn you into little more than a piece of meat to be picked apart by such animals.

His getting to live and escape the bloodshed of the duel for the throne was simply an added recompense.

"Considering what the alternative would have been like for her, Brother, I will happily take her scornful demeanor for the rest of my days," he answered, sincerity pouring out of every word. "She may despise me for as long as I live for taking her choice in marriage away from her, and be appalled by knowing of my affections towards her, but at least she will be here. Safe in the realm she calls home. Surrounded by those that love her most. Better this than all of Asgard losing her…and ultimately her losing any sense of self if Prince Damien has his way."

"The royal court of Alfheim will not take kindly to the news that a unification with our realm by marriage to Princess Y/N is no longer an option," Odin finally spoke aloud. "Namely their crown prince."

"That adolescent in a grown oaf's body is simply ambitious and suffers from delusions of grandeur," Thor said with a dismissive sneer. "And I do agree with you, Brother. To a point. But Father is also right. There will be an effort of resistance on their part, even likely demanding a form of reparation for their time spent gone to waste."

"Perhaps he could challenge me to a duel, then," Loki responded bitterly, a rueful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And I could do all the Realms a favor by ridding them of this pathetic disrespectful excuse of a prince with my bare hands."

"Let us hope it does not come to that, my sons." Odin stood from the table, beginning to circle the room as he spoke of his plans for the immediate future. "We have now entered a time for celebration. There is to be a royal wedding. The likes that may satisfy the proponents of our old and our new traditions alike."

A chill ran down Loki's spine at his father's words, already knowing the course that this conversation would take. Tradition decreed that when a royal was betrothed, there were to be a series of affairs they were to partake in, mainly so the citizens of their Realm could grow accustomed to the new relationship and accept the new dynamics at play.

He always thought of it as being paraded around akin to a child going around their classroom to show the other students their shiny new toy. And now at the center of that attention would be himself…and you.

"You are to engage in a public courtship," the Allfather addressed him. "Get the denizens of the streets of Asgard accustomed to the idea that they will now see you and Y/N in a different light. That you two will now belong to one another and as such, any slight to one of you will be an affront to the other. We can decide what events this courtship will consist of at a later day. For now, we focus on the announcement of your betrothal."

Cognizance seemed to dawn upon Thor's features, his accusatory gaze pinning his brother where he sat. "He has been courting her, Father. All this time. We'd all simply been unaware."

Loki fought back the urge to protest or deny the claim. He wanted more than anything to say that Thor was simply jumping to conclusions now, that he was farcically wrong, as he often was. But as the seconds passed, and he looked back on his interactions with you, he knew that denying it would be nothing but a bold faced lie.

The gifts he would bring back for you upon his return from every assignment Odin or Frigga would send him off to, the time you two would spend together despite having no formal reason to, the gestures he made towards you from the way he would hold you to his side when you passed a crowded street or how he kissed your knuckles when your time together for the day had reached its conclusion. There had always been a layer of intimacy that anyone watching would have seen from leagues away.

You two had been unwittingly engaging in a public courtship since the day you met.

"I assure you, Brother, that had never been my intention," was all he could muster.

"Then these next moons shall come quite naturally to you then, Loki," Odin told him. "And now public courtship is precisely your intention. It is one thing for Y/N to have accepted the terms of your surrender, and ultimately this marriage, but it shall be another thing entirely for the rest of Asgard to accept it. Now, your first act as her betrothed is to find her and inform her of what shall be required of both of you prior to the royal wedding taking place."

"Try not to tell her while she is in the presence of her weapons," Thor quipped. "The last thing we need is for her to be locked in the dungeons for committing avunculicide."

A/N: Pretty sure Thor hated how his brain cells rubbed together and figured it out at the end back there 🫠 But anyways holy hell goddamn I can't believe we're finally here…Season 1 is coming to a close and I can finally get started on planning out Season 2…and writing a whole bunch of other projects alongside it 🤪

Lemme just say right now…the plans I have so far for Season 2? Especially towards the end of it? Chaos (insert baby yoda with the flames here)

I had to split the S1 finale into two parts because honestly it was too long and there was too much going on even for me for a single chapter. The final episode of Season 1 will go up on Friday. 😳

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @lokidokieokie @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @dryyoursaltyoceantears @herdetectivetheorist @alexakeyloveloki @lulubelle814 @jaidenhawke @km-ffluv

WE ARE SO BACK

---

Marvel you better not fuck this up AGAIN

ah fuck who am I kidding the Russo brothers are in charge they're gonna fuck this up again and i'm gonna be down bad crying at the cinema--

@lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @holdmytesseract @alexakeyloveloki @smolvenger @five-miles-over @ladyofthestayingpower @maple-seed @gigglingtiggerv2 @thedistractedagglomeration @lulubelle814 @joyful-enchantress @give-me-a-moose @loopsisloops @tallseaweed @simplyholl @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 ++

the final Lady Sharpe part 8: a new beginning

Series Masterlist See my full list of works here!

Part of the 500 Follower Celebration Requested by: @ellooo0ooo

Summary: Thomas arrives at your apartment in the city in a last ditch attempt to stop you from leaving him

Pairing: Thomas Sharpe x Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Warning/s: 18+ | smut (minors & pearl clutchers, get out, i won't ask again); unprotected p in v; oral (f receiving); a bit of body worship; mention of scars; a bit of a striptease; multiple orgasms [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: Thomas & Reader are married

Dick-tionary: smut starts at "I want you bared to me" and ends at the chapter divider

What on Earth is he doing here? you thought to yourself, practically dragging your feet down the hall as you made your way to your husband, at least for the next few minutes.

"This seemed the most likely place I'd find you," Thomas said, making his way over to you in a few large strides, meeting you halfway. "I need to speak with you."

He was probably so eager to sign the documents he couldn't even wait for me to get back to the manor, the unpleasant thought reared its ugly head, tauntingly echoing in your mind so loudly it felt as if it was pulsing in your ears. "Of--Of course," you told him, painting on a strained smile as you motioned your head to your door. "Let's go inside. We can talk there."

Your heart jumped to your throat when he reached for your hand, threading your fingers together before leading you down the hallway. You did your best to steady your hand as you unlocked your door and walked into the regrettably dusty space, making a note to change your sheets before going off to Allerdale Hall a final time to fetch your belongings.

The air felt too thick to draw in to your lungs, watching as he awkwardly walked over to the fireplace and worked to bring some warmth into what would be your home once again. You took this time to take the documents out of your satchel, placing them on your work desk to wait for him.

Once he got the fire going, he stood to his full height, smoothing his hands over his coat before walking back to you, circling your waist loosely with his arms. "You truly are so breathtaking in firelight, darling," he whispered, before leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

The gesture had you fighting back tears, wanting more than anything to just throw the documents in the bin, to change your mind. To tell him that you'd fallen in love with him.

It's because I love him that I shouldn't be selfish, you repeated to yourself your words from the cemetery just less than an hour ago. He deserves to have his life back.

And that settled it. You had to push on.

You cleared your throat, offering him an awkward tight-lipped smile before jerking your head toward the desk. "As promised," you mustered the words, voice strained as your smile threatened to falter. "A deal is--"

"I can't," he blurted out, lightly grasping your arms, as if he's trying to keep you from  backing away any more than you already had. "I can't sign without saying my piece. Please, darling just…hear what I have to say and if you're less than receptive then I will do as you wish. I will sign."

"Thomas, this isn't about what--"

"I love you!" he said the words in a rush, practically shouting them. Your heart nearly soared from hearing the words. He took a breath, running his hands down your arms to take your hands in his. "I've fallen in love with you, Y/N Sharpe. The last thing I want in this world is for you to leave me. But I don't want for you to return to Allerdale Hall with me, either.

"I want us to find a new home. Here, in the city. We'll have the manor demolished and in its place, a mining facility for the clay and only that. It would take time, but we could start small, owning and managing the business together, as partners. It doesn't need to be lavish, and with the machines we have now, it doesn't need to be supervised as closely as I once did.

"And living here would have you close to the Scotland Yard station. It would be easier for you to return to work, whenever you wish to return to work. We could build a new life together, far away from any horrid memories and vengeful spirits. We would be safe, and…" he trailed off, framing your face with his large hands, stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. "And I could be with you. The freedom I have now, the freedom you quite literally fought and  bled to grant me, it only means something if I get to spend it with you. So please, darling, my love, I don't want to have to sign--"

His words stopped abruptly in a heartbreaking sound when he glanced upon the top paper, seeing your name and signature in that picturesque cursive that once fascinated him. Now it lay there, almost menacingly, as if taunting him that he'd just made a fool of himself.

"Thomas--"

"It seems I've placed myself in a rather erm…humiliating position, I'm terribly sorry," he trembled, eyes already filling with tears as he reached for one of the pens on your desk. "I shall sign and see myself out."

Seeing the nib of your pen start to descend onto the paper took you quickly out of your shock, knocking the pen out of his hand. "You didn't…you didn't humiliate yourself," you told him. "I signed back at the station because I knew…that if I had to do it with you in the room with me, I'd beg for you to stop me.

"This isn't what I want, I didn't want to sign those papers, I just thought…" You struggled to form words, sobs threatening to wrack through your body. "I thought this was what you wanted at the end of all this. I'm sorry, Thomas, I didn't know." You took a step closer to him, placing your hands on his arms and taking a deep breath before you finally let the words out. "I love you. Seeing you sign those papers…it would tear me apart."

You didn't realize you were holding your breath until you felt him loosely wrap his arms around your waist once more, pulling you closer. "Darling, choose your next words carefully," he said shakily. "Because if you say yes, I fear you may never be able to rid yourself of me. Are you mine?"

"Yes! Yes yes, I'm yours." Your words stumbled out of your mouth clumsily; you couldn't say them fast enough.

Your husband softly laid his forehead against yours, taking the moment in before taking a step back, his gaze a touch darker as he looked upon you. His love. His wife. His. "In that case, my love, there is one small matter left to attend to," he said, grasping those dreadful documents in his hand and marching over to the fireplace.

"Thomas!" you gasped, your mouth agape as you watched him toss the documents straight into the fire, the flames growing larger for a few short moments and casting a light on him that had your stomach a-flutter. A feeling that grew more and more intense with every stride he took towards you, and finally made you feel as if you were flying when he pressed his body against you, holding you so close to him you could feel his heartbeat through all the layers of clothing separating you.

"Mine," he growled, placing a hand behind your neck before laying his lips on yours in a kiss so fevered it made your knees buckle. Had he not been holding you so tightly you might have melted to the floor.

You let out a squeal against his lips when he hoisted you up to sit on your desk, hands roaming and grasping at your legs through the layers of your skirt, moving up until he reached the buttons of your collar piece. Nimble fingers made quick work to undo them all and haphazardly toss the flimsy piece of fabric to the ground. All the air left your lungs as his mouth latched on to the newly exposed skin, kissing and nipping at your neck, turning you into a squirming mess.

He pulled away, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, your stomach fluttering away violently once you saw how flustered your husband looked. The wanton nature of his actions just seconds earlier was a stark contrast to the now almost sheepish look on his face, a question clearly playing at the tip of his tongue.

"My darling wife," he said softly, fingers now tracing delicately along the subtle designs of your dress. "I wish to lay with you." There was a moment of hesitation before his eyes met yours, silently pleading before the words left his lips. "May I?"

That guilt that weighed down heavily on your heart all those prior times that you denied him this request finally lifted as you gave him a smile, nodding your head.

He placed a tender kiss to your lips before taking a step back, giving your hips a quick squeeze before starting to move towards the bed. "Stay right there, darling," he ordered you softly before shrugging off his overcoat, opening the windows, and stripping the sheets off your bed. He shook the dusty sheets aggressively in the direction of the open window, carefully placing it back atop the bed before doing the same with your pillows.

It presented to you the perfect opportunity to appreciate the scene before you, painting a rather enticing picture of what your life in both the near and distant future would look like. It nearly stole all you breath away seeing how well Thomas fit into this space, into your life.

Not only as if he belonged, but also as if he finally filled the void that you had actively ignored about the place you called home for the longest time. The void in your life.

Sure, you had been content back then, going about your routine and moving to your own timetable. But there were times. Times when you would lie in bed in your lonesome, wishing there was someone in your life that you could share your days and nights with.

And now here he was.

Thomas turned back, looking at you with hungry, desirous darkened eyes as he untucked his large billowing shirt from his trousers and whipping the garment over his head. Your hands moved to the laces of your dress behind your back, all too eagerly wanting to match his state of undress.

You'd both already waited far too long for this.

Thomas seemed determined to turn you into a weakened puddle of a woman as he pressed his lips to yours again, placing your arms to rest atop his shoulders so that he could deftly undo the laces himself. Only when he had fully unlaced the top most layer of your dresses did he give you a gentle tug by your waist, bringing you to your feet and helping you work the sleeves off of your arms so the heavier garments could fall to the floor.

He held your hands as you stepped out of the pooled fabric before tentatively feeling along your curves that were now only shrouded with the flimsy fabric of your underdress. The both of you had face-splitting grins on your faces, eyes hungrily roaming what had already been exposed to you.

You tentatively stepped toward the bed, your brows furrowing together when your husband didn't move with you, instead placing a kiss to your forehead before walking back to the window. You could feel the traitorous pooling of your arousal between your legs watching him close the windows shut with a resounding click before drawing the curtains closed, worsened even more when he turned back to face you and you could see the darkly lustful intent in his devastatingly handsome features.

"Any prying eyes would have squirmed where they stood if they are to witness what I intend to do to you, my love," he rasped. He reached for your underdress, the fabric bunching in his large hands as he slowly brought the fabric up your body. "I want you bared to me."

Your heart thundered violently in your chest as he carefully pulled the flimsy garment over your head, his breath audibly catching in his throat when he once again saw the scars that were scattered along your chest and stomach. When he pressed his finger tips to the raised skin, you trembled under his touch, even more so when he leaned down to press his lips to one of them.

"My wife," he said in a shuddering breath, warming your skin before he kissed another scar. "My strong, beautiful wife." He kissed his way back up to your lips, sighing in contentment as your lips moved against his in near perfect synchronization as he carefully undid your hair, pins falling to the hardwood floor with a resounding tinkling sound.

Thomas guided you to lie flat on the mattress as he kissed you; the sight of him hovering over you, a few wavy tendrils of his hair drooping down and framing his empyrean features, had your heart beating wildly in your chest. He then proceeded to press his lips to your neck, lightly tracing across your collarbone to the base of your throat before traveling further down.

You let out a shuddering sigh of his name, the sound turning into a wanton moan when your husband captured your nipple between his lips, his teeth delicately grazing on the pebbled skin.

"Oh my love, you feel divine," he sighed, placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of your breast before descending further. His hands greedily roamed your body, a devious smirk playing at his lips when they grasped your thighs and he sank to his knees. "And I remember quite fondly that you taste exquisite, too."

You shuddered under his lustful gaze, clenching around nothing as he looked upon your entrance undoubtedly glistening in the low light of the bedroom and licked his lips. "Thomas!" you shrieked his name as he leaned forward and gave your slit a long, languorous lick before closing his lips over your clit.

"Like the rarest exotic honey the world has to offer," he murmured against your skin. "And you're all mine now." He placed another kiss upon the throbbing bundle of nerves. "My Y/N." Kiss. "My wife." Kiss. "My love." Kiss.

He reached up and threaded his fingers through yours, clasping your hands together as he devoured you. Like a desert-stranded man lapping furiously at an oasis. He whimpered and moaned as your thighs began to shake on either side of his head. You could feel him thrusting into the air, seeking any form of friction.

It didn't take long for him to bring you to the brink of climax, your thighs tensing around his head being his sign to latch his lips onto your clit and start rapidly fluttering his tongue on the swollen nub. You came with a scream. "Oh God yes…Oh…My…Husband!"

He wrapped his hands around your thighs, holding you open for him as you rode out your release on his tongue. And he greedily lapped up every wave of your release with languid strokes of his tongue.

Once your legs had stopped shaking, he lifted them gently off his shoulders, standing back up to his full height. His lustful gaze pinned you to the bed, your husband a vision of sin as the firelight brought out the definition of his muscles. You would never forget how the flickering light of the flames danced across his torso as he moved and pushed the fabric down from his hips, baring himself before you, for as long as you lived.

Your breath caught in your throat once his trousers fell to his feet and his achingly hard cock sprang free. He braced himself on his hands, hovering over you and leaning back down to press his lips to your navel and began to ascend. Once more he had you a writhing and wanton mess beneath him once he took his time laving his tongue over your nipples before working his way to the base of your throat, nipping and sucking at the skin so much you were sure there would be a mark there tomorrow in the shape of his mouth.

He let out a shuddering breath against your skin once the tip of his length touched your slick entrance, the bedroom filling with your joint whimpers and moans as he started to inch his way inside. "Y-You feel perfect," he whispered into your neck, a deliciously desperate moan slipping out of him once he was fully sheathed inside you.

He set a slow, steady pace, his lips never leaving yours as he moved his hips, groaning and sighing contentedly into your mouth every time his hips were flush with yours.

The feel of his fingers starting to rub slow, tight circles on your clit sent you right at the edge of your next climax, whimpering his name as your fingers dug into his broad shoulders.

"That's it, my love. My darling wife," he panted, his breath hot on your skin before he pressed a kiss to the same spot. "Let go. I want to feel you come undone all over me."

It felt like you were engulfed in fire as the pleasure overpowered you once more, this time alongside your husband, his hips jerking into you as he spilled his seed into you. His arms gave out from under him and he collapsed atop of you, pressing his lips to your neck and chest as you both fought to catch your breath.

"I love you," you sighed contentedly as you pushed his hair back from his face, pressing a tender kiss to his temple. "My husband."

When you awoke in your old apartment's bedroom the next morning, the morning light washing over the simple yet cozy living space, you were alone. Had it been any other day, any other scenario with any other lover, you would have thought that Thomas had stepped out, not only out of your apartment, but out of your life.

And if it weren't for the slight throbbing ache between your legs, you might have even wondered if what had transpired last night was simply a figment of your imagination.

But the small note on your nightstand quickly extinguished any of those irrational fears.

My darling wife, I couldn't bring myself to wake you. You look so peaceful when you sleep, like a tired angel. I shall not be gone long, I've only gone out to fetch us some breakfast. Please don't leave the bed, I wish to kiss you good morning. Love, Thomas.

It wasn't long before the door to your apartment opened, and your husband walked into the bedroom with a breathtaking smile on his face once he'd seen that you followed his request. He placed the bags he was holding down on your desk before shrugging off his overcoat and making his way over to the bed. "Have I kept you waiting long, my love?" he asked you, his voice soft as he leaned in close, your lips nearly touching.

Your smile mirrored his as you shook your head. "I've only just woken up." You let out a soft, contented sigh against his lips once he closed the remaining distance and kissed you softly. "Good morning, husband."

"I wish to spoil you with breakfast in bed," he rasped, tracing along your bottom lip with his thumb. "And then perhaps we could take a stroll in the afternoon?"

"The afternoon?" you queried with a giggle. "What happened to the rest of the morning?"

"Well I was thinking we could spend that time…" he trailed off before pressing another kiss to your lips. "Right here?"

You felt a fluttering in your stomach at the implication of his words, the rest of your body already well on its way to warming up to the salacious suggestion. "Aren't you a bit overdressed for that, my darling husband?"

He gave you a smirk before standing up straight, hands already unbuttoning his waistcoat. "Easily remedied, my love."

A/N: I can't believe it…it's finally done! I went on a bit of a reading kick these last few weeks so writing took a bit of a backseat, and I can't lie it's probably gonna happen again but I'll see what I can do about actually putting this brain in balance mode to some degree 😅 But that is officially another request finished for the 500 follower celebration, and the next one's gonna be…an angsty Jonathan Pine story so I gotta get in my feelings for that one.

Now as for this story…there is actually an extra chapter that I wanna work on…for a smut event that I'm planning for later on in the year. Hopefully. I don't know yet what my schedule's gonna look like even a week from now.

But I'm off to read some more, write some more…and hopefully do some more of my lil crafty hobbies since my brain's getting dem zoomies again 🫡

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @dryyoursaltyoceantears @herdetectivetheorist @alexakeyloveloki @lulubelle814 @jaidenhawke @km-ffluv

Oka soo I dare to send in a Bucky imagine <3 Maybe one where you're dating but you're not an avenger, so you sometimes feel not good enough for him even though he always makes you feel special and he loves you more than anything. One time while he's at a mission, you're back at the compound waiting for him, but then also Sharon comes up to you being a bitch again and makes you feel even more unwanted and leave before Bucky returns. Later then he's happily waiting to see you, but frowns when he finds out you're not there. So he calls you, asking you to come over and you reluctantly agree. As you finally confront him with your doubts he immediately tries getting this thought out of you and gives you also his dog tags to prove he's yours forever and it's all cute then and also some soft smut where he tells you how much he loves you ? ♥️

Here we go! Here's our boy making everything better when the doubts creep in and we can shut it down on your own. Title: Yours to Keep

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x SHIELD Analyst!Female Reader

Summary: You feel like your not enough, and when Sharon gets in your head it makes it so much worse. But to Bucky you’re the reason to make it home.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Insecurity, emotional manipulation (from Sharon because she's a mean girl), soft possessiveness, smut, unprotected sex, established relationship, oral (f- receviving), praise, dog tag kink, Angst with Fluff, Romance.

A/N: Something softer for everyone this weekend. Thank you for the ask @wintersoldierchronicles

The compound was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that seeped into your skin and clung to you like static. You sat curled into one of the deep leather chairs in the lounge, knees tucked beneath you, a tablet in your lap. The screen glowed softly, lines of mission data scrolling as you half-heartedly skimmed them, reading intel you’d collected yourself over the past few days. Every enemy movement tracked. Every building layout mapped. Every communication protocol updated and tested.

All to help keep the Avengers safe. To keep him safe.

You should’ve felt accomplished. Proud. Instead, you felt like a ghost in your own home.

No one had said anything, not directly. But they didn’t have to. The looks, the nods you didn’t get in the hallway, the way everyone seemed to talk around you instead of to you. It all added up. They were Avengers. Legends. Gods. And you were… what? Just the analyst who happened to be dating one of them. An ordinary woman in love with an extraordinary man.

And somehow, no matter how often Bucky looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky, the thought kept crawling back up your throat like bile: You’re not good enough for him.

You bit the inside of your cheek and tried to focus, tried to chase away the fog settling over your mind. But it was no use. The feeling had been a quiet whisper in the dark for months now, and lately… it was starting to scream.

You had seen the way people looked at Bucky- like he was a living monument to strength and survival. A relic of history wrapped in modern muscle and trauma, wearing his past like armour. People admired him. Revered him. And yet, he came home to you. You, who shuffled files and ran analyses. Who flinched when the training team sparred too close to your desk. Who once got winded jogging down the corridor when your badge lanyard snagged on a doorknob.

What could he possibly see in you that someone like Sharon, like Natasha, couldn’t offer in a more fitting package?

Footsteps echoed lightly down the corridor, the sharp click of designer boots hitting the polished floor like a countdown. You didn’t even need to lift your eyes. That cadence was familiar, the kind that always made your stomach twist with a mixture of dread and forced politeness.

Then came the voice. Smooth. Sweet. Laced with superiority.

“Still here?” Sharon Carter stepped into view, her tone dipped in passive-aggressive honey. She was perfectly made-up, of course, with not a single hair out of place, her sleek suit hugging her figure in all the ways that made people notice when she walked into a room.

She looked you up and down like you were something out of place, something small, insignificant. “Thought they kept the admin staff in the basement.”

It was a joke, probably. One of those faux-friendly jabs that everyone was supposed to laugh at. Except she wasn’t smiling. Not really.

You fought to keep your expression neutral, fingers tightening slightly around the tablet in your lap. You weren’t going to let her see how deep that cut went, not when she was already poised to twist the knife.

You gave her a polite nod, trying not to let your discomfort show. “Just going over the post-mission data. They’re due back in an hour.”

"Must be hard. Being with someone like Bucky." Sharon's smile was the kind that never quite reached her eyes.

“What do you mean?” You stiffened, your fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the tablet.

She stepped closer, arms folded casually like this was just idle chatter.

"I mean- he’s one of us. Field-ready. Weapon-trained. A living legend. And you… well, you make great coffee."

You swallowed hard. "I do more than-"

"I know," she said quickly, with that same dismissive tilt of her head. "You’re smart. Very behind-the-scenes. Essential in your own way, I suppose. But let’s be honest…Bucky’s built for war. He needs someone who understands that. Who can keep up. Who can be more than just a comfort waiting at home."

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest, each word driving in like a nail. It was everything you'd feared, laid out in someone else’s voice. Someone who was supposed to be on your side.

"He probably misses someone who can actually stand beside him out there," Sharon added with a shrug. "You know… someone who belongs."

The tablet in your hands blurred as tears threatened. You blinked hard and forced yourself to breathe through your nose.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure whether you’d scream or sob.

So you just stood, quickly and quietly, and walked away- shoulders stiff, throat tight, eyes stinging. You had to get out of there before someone saw you fall apart.

You left the compound entirely, slipping out the back entrance and taking the long way home. Your mind ran in circles the whole walk. What if Sharon was right? What if everyone had just been too polite to say it out loud? What if the only reason Bucky was with you was because you were safe? Easy? A soft landing after years of running and pain?

~#~#~#~#~#~

Bucky came back two hours later, bruised and sweaty but grinning. The mission had been long, much longer than expected. But successful at least. He was covered in dirt and grime, dried blood flecked across one temple, the strap of his weapons bag cutting into his shoulder. His muscles ached, and the adrenaline had long since worn off, but one thing kept him upright, kept him moving: you. The thought of you waiting at the compound, probably curled up with your tablet and a warm drink, maybe looking up every time the door slid open- yeah, that thought had gotten him through worse days than this.

He slung his weapons bag over one shoulder, still covered in dirt and dust from the mission, and scanned the lounge immediately.

“Hey, Sam,” he called. “She around?”

Sam looked up from his protein bar, brow furrowing slightly. “She left a while ago. Didn’t say much. Looked kinda off, though.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “Off how?”

Sam stood, tossing the wrapper aside. “I dunno, man. Quiet. Real quiet. Didn’t even look me in the eye. Thought maybe she was just tired, but now…” He trailed off, reading the worry blooming on Bucky’s face.

“You think something happened?” Bucky asked.

Sam gave a slow nod. “Could be nothing. But you know her better than anyone. If it’s not nothing- you’ll fix it.”

Bucky’s heart dropped. Something was wrong. You always met him after missions. Always.

Without another word, he turned and pulled his phone out of his pocket, hand still a little bloodied. ~#~#~#~#~#~

You pulled your car over to the side of the road, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound breaking through your spiralling thoughts. You hadn’t made it home. It felt too far. Too final. The space inside your car was tight, suffocating, but it was still safer than walking through the front door like nothing was wrong.

The phone vibrated in your hand again, lighting up with his name.

You stared down at the caller ID like it was a bomb about to go off. You didn’t answer right away. How could you? How could you speak to him when all you wanted to do was disappear?

You were a coward. That much was clear. Running off like that, not even saying goodbye. You should’ve stayed. Faced it. Faced her. But the words Sharon had said... they hadn’t been new. They were just the same cruel thoughts you’d had about yourself, dressed up in someone else’s voice.

You weren’t right for someone like Bucky.

You were just an analyst. A desk jockey. A tagalong to the world of gods and heroes.

And he was... everything.

He was strength and legend and pain and hope, all wrapped up in that scarred, steady way he looked at you like you were worth the whole damn universe. And you? You couldn’t even look yourself in the mirror right now.

The phone buzzed again.

Guilt stabbed through your chest.

He’d just come off a mission. He was probably still aching, tired, maybe even hurt—and here you were, making it all about you. Selfish. So unlike him. He always made you feel like the only girl in the room. One look from him and the world melted away.

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in your eyes, and finally picked up.

“Hey,” you said, voice too quiet.

“Doll, where are you?” he asked, voice already softening. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just… needed some air.”

There was a pause.

“You lying to me, sweetheart?” he said gently.

You closed your eyes. He knew you.

“No.”

Another pause. “Come back to the compound. Please. I need to see you. You're scaring me.”

Your chest cracked open. He sounded so… real. So Bucky. You found yourself nodding, even though he couldn’t see it.

“Okay,” you whispered.

~#~#~#~#~#~

He was already waiting by the elevator when you arrived, walking slow, tense loops with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, the lines around his eyes carved deeper than usual. Every few seconds, his gaze darted toward the entrance, like he couldn’t help but check again, hoping- needing- you to appear.

The moment his eyes landed on you, he stopped dead. Everything in him just stilled. Relief hit him like a wave, shoulders dropping, hands unclenching—but his expression didn’t ease completely. No, his eyes stayed cautious, flickering across your face like he was afraid one wrong move might send you running. Like you were something breakable he didn’t dare press too hard.

He didn’t speak. Just opened his arms.

You tried to fake a smile, to smooth the cracks in your mask. But it was shaky, barely there, and he saw right through it. You saw the flicker of sadness in his eyes at the attempt.

You stepped into his embrace slowly, almost shyly, as if uncertain you still deserved it. The moment your body met his, the dam inside you cracked.

You buried your face in his chest, exhaling like you’d been holding your breath since you left the compound.

“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough with emotion. “There’s my girl.”

You clung to him, fingers twisting in his shirt like you were afraid he’d vanish, afraid this was all a dream that would dissolve when you let go.

“Do you wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asked eventually, drawing back just enough to look into your face. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, like he wanted to catch the remnants of that broken smile.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy and aching. “You’re Bucky Barnes. You’re an Avenger. A war hero. And I… I sit at a desk.”

“Stop,” he said instantly, thumb now tracing your cheekbone like he could wipe the pain away.

“I don’t fight aliens. I don’t have powers. I’m just… support staff.” Your voice wavered, trembling like your heart might break in two right there in front of him. “Sharon said you’d get bored of me. That you’ll want someone who can stand beside you in the field.”

His jaw tensed like he’d been struck. A flicker of something dark and cold passed through his expression, steel sharp and silent. His entire body went still.

“She said what?” he asked, voice low and dangerous, but even as the fury gathered behind his eyes, he didn’t let it take hold. He inhaled slowly, grounding himself. Because right now, you were what mattered.

You looked down, ashamed. “Doesn’t matter. She’s not wrong.”

There was a pause. Not long. Just the space of a heartbeat and then the weight of metal settled into your palm with a soft metallic clink.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low but unwavering.

You looked up, surprised by the intensity in his gaze.

“You see these?”

You nodded.

“These?” he said again, his voice thick with meaning as the tags clinked quietly between you. “These don’t just mean soldier. They mean survivor. They mean second chances. They mean you, okay? I don’t give these to anyone. I want you to have them.”

You stared at them, too stunned to speak, too overwhelmed to breathe. They were warm from his skin. Heavy with meaning.

He cupped your face gently, both hands trembling slightly now.

“You’re not support staff. You’re the person I come home to. My person. You keep me grounded. You’re the one thing that’s real.”

Your lips trembled, voice caught in your throat. “Bucky…”

He leaned down, voice husky and sure. “Put them on. Right now.”

You slipped the dog tags around your neck, hands shaking, heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears.

“There,” he said, eyes gleaming- not with pride, but with something softer. Fierce, unyielding love. “Now everyone knows. You’re mine. Forever.”

~#~#~#~#~#~

In the hallway, without a word, he scooped you up into his arms. Not rushed. Just worshipful, like you were something sacred he’d been aching to hold all day. You wrapped your arms around his neck, face tucked into the crook of his shoulder as he carried you, his footsteps steady and full of purpose, all the way to his room. Every step was careful, intentional, his hold firm but gentle, like he wanted to shield you from everything that had hurt you today.

He kissed your forehead as he laid you back on the bed, then your cheeks, your jaw, each press of his lips like a vow.

“So beautiful… so smart…” he murmured with each kiss. “Couldn’t do any of this without you.”

His soft kisses pressing into your cheeks, the corners of your mouth. 

“You’re everything to me,” he said, pulling your shirt over your head. “Every breath, every second.”

His mouth moved to your collarbone, your chest, trailing down your stomach , while his hand eased you out of your pants. 

“You think I don’t need you?” he said between kisses, each one a soft promise against your skin. “Baby, I fall apart without you.”

His mouth moved lower, worshipful and unhurried, kissing every inch of you like he was reacquainting himself with something sacred. By the time his tongue slid between your thighs, you were already trembling.

He groaned when you gasped, the sound low and reverent. Not just desire but devotion. His tongue moved with slow, deliberate precision, savouring every soft, slick response he pulled from you. He licked a long, teasing stripe up your centre, then circled your clit with a maddening tenderness, his hands gripping your thighs just firm enough to keep you open and trembling beneath him.

He moaned into you, like the taste of you was salvation, like he’d starved for this and finally had permission to feast. One hand slid up your stomach, grounding you as your hips bucked gently, chasing every press of his mouth.

“So sweet,” he murmured against you, voice thick with love, his lips brushing your most sensitive skin. “Taste like heaven. My heaven.”

He didn’t stop. Not yet. Not when you were trembling so perfectly for him. His tongue moved in slow circles, each pass deliberate and precise, coaxing you higher with gentle persistence. His grip on your thighs tightened slightly as your breath caught, his mouth parting you with reverence.

He flicked his tongue softly, then flattened it, letting the heat of him soak into every nerve ending, every gasp. He alternated pressure and pace, reading every twitch of your body like scripture. When he sucked your clit into his mouth and moaned, the vibration made your entire body arch into him.

“You’re not allowed to think you’re not wanted,” he rasped between strokes, his voice wrecked with affection and need. “Not when I love you.”

You cupped his face as he kissed up your body again, pausing to nuzzle the dog tags now lying warm between your breasts. “You feel like home,” you whispered, eyes glassy, voice raw with truth.

When he finally pressed inside you, it wasn’t fast or greedy. It was achingly slow, like he was trying to carve a place for himself inside you, not just in body but deeper. He let out a low, unsteady breath as he sank in, his forehead dropping to yours, his hand tightening around yours like he couldn’t bear to let go.

He didn’t thrust. Not right away. He stayed there for a beat, deep and still, forehead resting against yours as his breath caught in his throat. His hand stayed tangled in yours, his vibranium one anchored at your hip, grounding you both. “I need this,” he whispered. “Need you. Like this. Just us. You make everything quiet.” Bucky needed you to feel every inch, every part of him that belonged to you.

And then he moved like a tide rolling in to soothe what had been broken, to wash away everything that hurt. His hips rolled back with unhurried grace, then pressed forward again in a smooth, reverent stroke, making sure to drag himself along your velvet walls with each motion, slow and devastatingly deep. The way he filled you, the way he moved inside you. Like he was writing his name into your soul with every breathless thrust, imprinting himself where no one else had ever reached. Every motion was a promise: that he was here, that he was yours, that you were loved in the most complete, carnal, and emotional sense of the word.

Every slow push and pull was deliberate, reverent, the kind of lovemaking that felt like a conversation without words. He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple, murmuring softly between each breath.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice cracking as you trembled beneath him. “So damn much it hurts. You make me feel like a man. You see me.”

You cupped his cheek, tears sliding down your temples. “You see me.”

He let out a soft, shaky breath and kissed you again, Bucky pouring everything he had into it.

His rhythm stayed slow but insistent, hips pressing into yours with aching tenderness, like he wanted to be memorized, like he never wanted to be forgotten. The friction, the closeness, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made him feel whole—it all built into something consuming, something soft and sacred.

When you came, your soft cries muffled into the curve of his neck, he held you tighter, like anchoring himself to you, like if he let go, the whole world would tilt. He whispered your name over and over again like a prayer, like a lifeline, like a vow, following close behind you with a quiet, broken groan into your skin.

And you knew, in that moment, that this wasn’t just sex.

It was coming home.

~#~#~#~#~#~

Afterward, he wrapped the blanket around you both, tucking you into his chest like he was trying to shield you from the rest of the world. His metal fingers traced soft, soothing circles against your spine, grounding you in the silence that settled warmly between you.

“You ever doubt your place again,” he murmured, lips pressed to your hair, voice rough with sleep and sincerity, “I want you to remember tonight. Remember how I touched you. How I looked at you. Remember this.”

You nodded against his chest, overwhelmed, your cheek pressed to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Your fingers curled around the dog tags still resting over your heart, the weight of them a quiet promise.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, the words small but certain.

He smiled, eyes closed as his arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

“You always were,” he said, so softly it was nearly a breath, but you felt it more than heard it, like a vow etched beneath your skin.

miss possessive - congressman bucky barnes

okay not my best work, i swear i have like nine drafts i've come up with in a week, none of them good enough to post.

this is inspired by miss possessive by tate mcrae even though i completely lost sight of the song really quickly

~~~

you really had no right to be so jealous.

you watched him from across the floor, sipping on your flute of champagne. you'd grabbed it off of one of those waiters' trays as they were walking about the room.

it tasted like shit. you didn't like the taste of wine, and it wasn't even enough to get you drunk.

you knew this kind of event was difficult for him to sit through, but hey, he made his choice going into politics.

you watched as he made his rounds, speaking to various donors and attempting to charm them. you watched as all their wives fawned over your-

no.

you watched as all their wives fawned over him, bringing him in for a hug instead of a handshake. of course they were interested; he was the best looking man here. yes, he was the oldest man in the room, but appeared to be the youngest and was, regardless, easily the most attractive. and all the thirty-some wives of the cranky old rich white men wanted him.

it pissed you off. not that you had the right to be pissed, but. oh well. you're just a girl.

after two flutes of champagne, you watch as one of the donors receives a phone call, leaving his wife with Bucky. ever the gentleman, he would never leave a woman all by herself in a room full of sharks who might try to snatch her up. 

Bucky was very much a different man than he was in the forties, of course. doesn't mean he lost the ability to attract every woman in the room.

you can't stand idly by as she puts his hands all over him, and he can't take his eyes off of her. no, of course he would never go for a married woman. what he did know, though, was that if he pissed her off, her husband wouldn't donate to his campaign.

you roll your eyes and decide it's time for some hard liquor.

you hide in the corner of the room, drinking your much stronger beverage as fast as possible. no, getting drunk at a professional event isn't the best idea, but what do you care. you're not the star of the show.

he is.

he's the brilliant ex-POW who's turned his entire life around in a whole new century. he's the gorgeous soldier who not only survived, but is also electing to do something meaningful with his life. 

he's the star tonight.

he's the star of every thought you have of your future, but that can't possibly come to surface now. it's not the time or place. 

watching him entertain this woman truly boils your blood, but at least you have some actual alcohol in your system now. you no longer feel the need to justify why her hands on his pristine suit makes you want to grab her by the diamonds around her neck and yank her off of him. you can justify your desire to grab him by the tie to pull him away from her and yell at him for not focusing on what's important. 

you bite your tongue. you knew it was all a ploy.

doesn't mean you had to like it. 

~~~

while you stand at the bar waiting for your second beverage of the evening, a man comes up next to you, and the bartender takes his drink order. 

you give him a small, awkward smile as you briefly make eye contact. you're kind of shocked: he's definitely the only man in this room who appears to be younger than 60, Bucky excluded.

you almost startle when he speaks up, introducing himself. Michael, he says his name is.

you turn to actually face him this time. roughly 40, plenty taller than you, and brown hair sprinkled with some greys in there. your perfect type. you quietly tell yourself you're done drinking–no way you're gonna fuck this up. if you weren't so mad about Bucky's new admirer, you might be a tad less inclined to speak to him, but… 

you step closer as you give him a real smile and introduce yourself.

"so, correct me if I'm wrong, but something tells me you're here alone tonight," he begins, indicating to your left hand. no ring. 

you laugh a little. 

"you would be correct," you tell him. "I could say the same about you."

he smiles back at you. it's so beautiful you forget all about your boss and the woman he's now got on his arm as he continues to walk around–

well. you almost forget. good enough.

"you would also be correct."

you explain why you're here, you work for one of the candidates. although, you don't tell him who, exactly. he explains why he's here, one of the patrons. you have to pry the information out of him, but you appreciate it: he's trying to talk to you without flashing his money in your face. it's noble, you think.

you eventually learn he's interested in actually getting to know the candidates' campaigns, not just what they think they can offer him in return for his money.

"you know, I would be happy to learn more about your boss' campaign. from one of the people who probably understands it best," he tells you. you're slightly taken aback for a moment, not aware this was a business interaction. you never even told him who your boss was, so it was confusing, to say the least.

you felt stupid for thinking he was actually interested, for thinking that he was flirting with you.

"oh, of course-" you begin to tell him, but he interjects, "after I take you out, perhaps?"

your smile perks back up subconsciously. so you didn't have it wrong.

"I would love that," you tell him, carefully taking the lapels of his jacket into your hands. you feel his hands come to your waist, and it's like a jolt of energy runs up your spine.

you look closer and almost flip your shit as you see his eyes up close. they're Bucky's eyes. he's not Bucky, sadly, but. 

you're fucked.

"maybe dinner can happen... another time?" you offer, hoping he gets the hint. you realize you probably look like a whore throwing yourself at him like this.

he chuckles. "I've got a room upstairs, if you'd like to come have drinks instead of dinner."

hell yes. you're gonna score tonight, even if it's not with the man you dream about with your hands between your legs every night-

"I would," you say, and bite your tongue. "I just... have to stick around until this thing is over. yeah?"

he nods and steps back. "I suppose I should also do what I came here for," he chuckles. "I'll come find you later?"

you smile and you feel your face go pink. "sounds good."

you can't help the fact that your gaze reverts immediately back to your boss the second the man walks off. Bucky hasn't spared you a single glance all evening, but the second you look back at him this time, you're suddenly staring into his beautiful eyes. 

he holds eye contact with you for what feels like an eternity. his expression is muted, no real emotion showing. maybe... curiosity?

of course he's not going to look mad, or upset, or jealous. you have to stop thinking he'd ever look at you with anything other than pure professionalism.

because he's everything. and you're just a kid, lost in the world, desperately in love with your boss, and everything is fucking falling apart around you.

at least you've got a rich, hot, older man ready to fuck you tonight.

~~~

you kept to your word to yourself and didn't drink for the rest of the night, although you continued hovering at the bar for the semblance of safety it provided.

you continued staring at Bucky for the next two hours. the clingy woman's husband had, in fact, returned and took her away from Bucky. clearly, she was pissed, but tried to hide it. you had to bite back a smirk.

he didn't look back at you once for the rest of the evening.

eventually, the crowd dies down. you realize that now, you have to explain to your boss that you won't be riding back to the office with him, effectively telling him your exact plans for the rest of the night. embarrassing!

you're almost ready to bite the bullet and bid Bucky a good night, scanning the room for him, when you hear a voice from behind you. 

"we still on for drinks?"

you plaster a smile on your face as you turn around to the man standing behind you.

"absolutely," you say, taking his hands. "lead the way."

you begin to follow the man, telling yourself to try and remember to shoot your boss a text to 'not worry about you' before getting your clothes torn off by this man who's currently whisking you away.

you get into the elevator with him, what's his name, you think? oh, Michael, and yank him in hard, crashing your mouths together, putting all of your energy into how badly you need this.

you're startled by the sound of a clanging of metal, ripping your mouth away from the man's and turning to face the noise.

well, apparently, you were too eager and stupid enough to not wait for the elevator doors to entirely shut, because you see now that the noise was a result of Bucky's vibranium arm grabbing the elevator door. he pushes it open and steps inside, eyes piercing daggers through you the whole time.

you stand there, appalled. the man gently pulls away from you, reaching out a hand to attempt to shake Bucky's hand.

"Mr. Barnes, it's a pleasure," he begins. "my apologies for this... less than ideal meeting."

Bucky doesn't even look at the man, eyeing you up and down, taking in your smudged lipstick and the way your dress is slightly out of place.

the man attempts once more to interject. "Mr. Barnes, please, don't worry about her. why don't us men go back downstairs and have a real discussion? I'd love to hear more about your campaign."

wait. why do his words sound like they're throwing you under the bus, almost?

Bucky notices it, too, you realize. he tilts his head in the man's direction before actually averting his gaze to look at him.

"and leave the lady all by herself?" he asks.

"don't worry about that. she's... inconsequential. if you and I can just go back downstairs and–"

"what did you just say?" Bucky asks. you swear he doesn't look like your boss anymore, but someone... else.

the man is taken aback by Bucky's demeanor. his mouth gapes like an idiot.

"you do know this is my assistant, right?" Bucky asks him. the man's face goes pale as the pieces slot together in his head.

"Mr. Barnes, my apologies, truly," he says.

you just stand there feeling more stupid than ever. inconsequential? wow, okay. you almost don't even care that he's dismissing your entire existence, but you can't stand the fact that he's doing it in front of Bucky. you care more about what Bucky thinks of you than literally anyone else, and now? now he's going to see you as a fucking slut who isn't even good enough for a man to commit to for one night.

god, you're pathetic.

"shouldn't you be apologizing to her?" Bucky grits.

the elevator doors open to the man's floor, and he mumbles a sorry under his breath as he runs out.

great. not only do you look pathetic in front of your boss, but you're not getting fucked tonight, either. just great.

the doors shut behind Bucky, who has now returned his gaze to you. you wonder if he's going to press the button to go back to the lobby.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Mr. Barnes," you say, swallowing your embarrassment as you stand up straight and adjust your dress.

he just stares at you.

"what?" you ask.

"are you okay?" he asks, and he looks genuinely concerned.

you know he cares about you, you're his assistant, after all. but that's it.

"fine," you assure him, and begin to reach behind him to press the button to take you back down to the lobby.

he gently grabs your wrist before you can.

you look at him, confused. you know your face says it all.

"Mr.–" you begin.

"Bucky," he corrects.

"can I press the button, Mr. Barnes?"

he still hasn't let go of your wrist. you feel stupid for enjoying the feel of his metal hand against your skin, for getting to feel a part of him that's real.

"you know, you clearly picked out the worst of the men here tonight," he observes.

you roll your eyes and pull your wrist away from him before you do something stupid.

"are you kidding? this place was riddled with capitalist billionaires and politicians. like you," you say, smirking.

he chuckles a little.

you can't help yourself, though. can't let it go unsaid.

"clearly you had some interested parties of your own tonight."

he rolls his eyes and finally turns away from you, pressing the button for the lobby. you let out a quiet sigh of relief. being in this elevator any longer, with him? that would just about kill you.

"you noticed that, huh?" he asks.

"who didn't?" you mumble. but of course, he's not just a politician, he's an enhanced, so he hears it.

"look, I knew she was married, I was never going to-" he begins to explain, but you cut him off.

"oh, I don't care what she does in her own fucked-up marriage."

oh my god. what did you just say? did you just admit to the fact that the only reason you did care was because she was fawning over Bucky?

fuck.

the elevator doors open, and you rush out.

you can hear the smirk on his face as he trails after you.

"so, you were really going to sleep with that guy, huh?" he teases.

you stop in your tracks. most everyone has left by now, leaving only you and Bucky in the room aside from the clean-up crew. you turn back to face him.

"can we just go?"

he nods and calls for the car to come around.

~~~

twenty minutes, you remind yourself.

in twenty minutes, you'll have made it back to the office, and you can go get in your own car and take yourself back to your own place and you won't have to be sitting thigh to thigh with your boss in the back of a limo that would totally be hot to fuck in-

he clears his throat, and you turn your head to face him.

"what that guy said..." he begins. you roll your eyes in anger at the reminder. you didn't even care he said it, you just wish he hadn't said it in front of Bucky.

you wave your hand as though waving off the thought, and waving off Bucky's concern. but it doesn't quite work like that.

"you're not inconsequential."

he says it with such a conviction you feel it deep in your bones, in the very core of your being. he sounds so authentic that it almost hurts.

a million thoughts swirl in your head. you could say i know, you could get defensive, you could say thanks, Bucky...

a better one pops in your head.

"how did you know where I was? you didn't see me all evening."

the limo stops moving. the driver rolls down the divider to grumble something about traffic at this hour? before rolling it back up again.

great. now it's going to take even longer to get home to your vibrator.

Bucky sees the interruption as a way to drop the matter. you press it.

"Mr. Barnes?"

"god, would you stop calling me that?"

you see him turn away from you to look out the window, biting his lip and rubbing his forehead. you've now frustrated him, and he's mad at you. this is good. it's easier for you to deal with him being angry at you than him being nice to you.

you know he just wants you to call him Bucky, but you're a smartass.

"yeah, okay, sorry. Sergeant Barnes," you mumble, smirking to yourself.

he about flips his shit. why is he getting so worked up?

"seriously?" he asks, turning back to you. his eyes are blown back, in anger, probably. not lust, like you wish they were. because you're just a stupid kid, and he's just your boss with a lifetime of trauma. you could never understand him the way you wanted to.

"what?" you say, biting your lip as you smile, continuing to tease him.

you swear that for a second, he glances down to your lips.

SHIT!

in that embarrassing moment, you realize your lipstick is still smudged across your face from the moment in the elevator. your heart rate shoots up as you bury your head in your chest, bringing your hand to wipe away the mess of your face, before turning to face the opposite way from him.

you are, well and truly, stuck in traffic. some concert, or sports game, or whatever...

which means you're stuck, pressed up against your boss, in the back of this tiny limo right now, for only god knows how much longer.

you're pulling your phone out of your clutch when he says your name.

you want to lean into the feeling, how smooth it is. how crisp his voice is, how pretty it sounds saying your name, as though he's genuinely paying you any attention whatsoever.

"you're not inconsequential."

it flares your anger, all of it coming up from your gut and into your throat, as you respond.

"god, would you forget it already?" you snap.

shit, shit, shit. you fucked up. you just snapped at your boss, of all people. you try to backtrack, throw out a million comments of "sorry," but that's it, you're getting fired.

you finally look back at him, and he's actually looking at you. like, it feels like he's staring into your soul, seeing all the pieces of you that you're trying to keep hidden from him.

the car begins moving again.

~~~

he watches you, trying to figure you out, as always.

he can't think of a better word for it than the fact that you genuinely amuse him.

he sees the look in your eyes, the way you're desperately trying to cover up the shame you feel over what happened in the elevator. he's trying to be gentle about it, trying to assure you that what the man said was utter bullshit, but you keep shutting him down.

god, and you look so...

no. you're, like, 80-plus years younger than him (he rubs his temples every time he remembers his age) and employed by him. any interest on his part would be purely inappropriate, a gross misuse of his position of power.

and god, his fucking age, man. he shouldn't even be around anymore-

anyways.

you look at him with those fucking doe eyes, going back and forth between anger, and shame, and something else he can't quite pinpoint.

this is probably the worst part of what happened. you're always so unapologetically yourself, but he can tell this man has gotten under your skin.

even if it's not his job to comfort you, he doesn't want you to feel like that. because who you are is perfect. 

~~~

one minute, you're staring into his eyes, trying to read the look on his face. 

the next, you're bracing yourself as the car spins out of control, feeling hit after hit of various cars all crashing into you sequentially.

you don't register it until after it's all over. the way he's wrapped himself around you as though to protect you. his flesh arm cradles your head to his chest and his vibranium hand wraps itself around the back of your neck.

you take a few deep breaths and begin to pull away from him, looking up to his face as you do. his eyes widen in shock as he looks at you. what? what is it?

"fuck, we gotta get you to a hospital." 

~~~

part 2 out by friday 3/28/25!

masterlist

tag list

tagged: @clavedelune

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

Smitten

Summary : Sam finally meets Bucky’s girlfriend, though you’re not who he thinks you are. 

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

Warnings/tags : Fluff fluff FLUFF! Joaquin and Sam are in this. Introverted! Reader. Brief mentions of violence. Cursing. 

Requested by : anon (based on this request)

Word count : 2.3k

Note : This satisfies my need to stay at home all day haha! Enjoy!

Sam had never met Bucky’s girlfriend.

But he had heard of you.

A lot about you, actually.

Nine months ago, Bucky had started mentioning you after you met at a bookshop. You were this hero, who, by all accounts, should have been the most intimidating woman on the planet. You were skilled and ruthless when necessary, even Hydra handlers would probably admire your work. Joaquin had read the files— how you tracked down an entire weapons trafficking ring by yourself, left every single one of the enemy in various states of agony, and managed to leave without any fatalities.

“Have you seen the mission reports? She’s so precise it’s actually terrifying,” Joaquin had said on the way to Bucky’s apartment, telling every legendary story he had heard about you. “I heard they took down a whole warehouse of mercenaries with a pair of batons. Not even a gun! She sounds mean.”

Sam chuckled, adjusting the bag of soda in his hands. “No way anyone is meaner than Bucky, though.”

“We’ll see, man.” Joaquin grinned. “Maybe she makes him look nice.”

Sam snorted. If that were the case, he was dying to meet you.

But the thing was, as terrifying as you apparently were on the field, Bucky talked about you like you were… fragile.

It started six months ago, when you officially became a couple.

Sam started noticing the way Bucky’s face changed when he mentioned you. He’d have a slight smile that softened the hard lines of his forehead. His voice would lose that slightly gruff tone, growing softer the more he mentioned you. 

And fuck knows he talked about you all the damn time.

Not just about how skilled you were, though Sam had gotten enough secondhand mission briefings to wonder if Bucky was keeping a shrine somewhere. No, he often talked about the little things. Like how you stole the blankets in your sleep. Or how you tried (and failed) to teach Bucky how to use a bo staff. Or how you sent Bucky the stupidest memes at 3 AM, knowing full well you’d have to explain half of them in person. 

And God help them all if you did something impressive— Bucky would pretend to be all casual about it, but then five minutes later, he’d be bringing it up again saying how proud he was of his girlfriend capturing four cops illegally dealing rifles to civilians.

“You’re not subtle,” Sam had pointed out once, after Bucky spent a debrief clearly distracted.

Bucky shrugged, though he was mentally counting down the minutes to when he’d see you again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m thinking about my girlfriend’ look.” Sam smirked. “It’s gross, by the way.”

Bucky had just scoffed something under his breath and rolled his eyes. 

So yeah, Sam had never met you. Between your missions and his, the opportunity just never aligned.

But by now, he felt like he already knew you.

And tonight, after months of hearing Bucky talk about you like a hopelessly lovesick super soldier—he and Joaquin were finally going to meet the Winter Soldier’s girlfriend.

—

They had expected you to be brutal. Brash. Maybe even a little cold, given your reputation.

Instead, when Bucky opened the door, the first words out of his mouth were, “Hey, uh—just so you guys know, my girlfriend’s a little nervous about meeting you.”

Sam paused mid-step. What?

Bucky shifted, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s, uh… not really the social type.”

Joaquin raised an eyebrow, shooting Sam a look. Sam could tell he was just as confused. “Your girlfriend?”

“Yes, my girlfriend,” Bucky deadpanned, crossing his arms.

Before Sam could respond, a small blur of white streaked past Bucky’s feet making a beeline for Joaquin, weaving between his legs and rubbing against his boots. It took a second for his brain to catch up, but then— oh. It was the kitten. Alpine. Bucky adopted her a couple weeks ago. Sam had received no less than five photos a day from Bucky over the last two weeks, each one featuring the cat in a different pose, with captions like—

"Look at her lil’ paws." "She fell asleep on my chest." "She just sneezed."

Before Sam could make a funny remark, he heard a voice come from  inside the apartment.

“Alpine, no. Come here, baby,” you said gently.

Sam blinked. That was his girlfriend?

You appeared, peeking out from the kitchen doorway. You looked… normal. Cozy, even. Dressed in comfortable clothes, eyes wide, fingers fidgeting at your sides.

The gears in Sam’s felt like they needed oiling for a second.

This was you? The you?

The same person who had infiltrated high-security facilities without breaking a sweat? The same person who single-handedly takes down crime syndicates left and right? The same woman he read about in news articles and mission reports?

You gave them both a hesitant smile and a small wave. “Um. Hi.”

Joaquin, bless him, recovered from the initial shock first. “Hey!” he said, “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Your smile widened. Your shoulders started to relax. “All good things, I hope.”

Before Sam could even wrap his head around how soft-spoken you were, Bucky stepped closer to you. Gone was the battle-hardened soldier, and in his place was a man so ridiculously in love that it almost made Sam uncomfortable to witness. But no, he was just happy that his friend was happy. In shock, but happy nonetheless.

Bucky reached for you carefully, like you were made of the most fragile glass. His hand found the small of your back, thumb rubbing soothing circles.

“Darlin’, you wanna come say hi properly?” he asked, his voice so different from the barks Sam was used to hearing in the field.

You nodded, stepping fully into view.

And then—because apparently, this wasn’t enough of a shock to Sam’s system—Bucky tucked you against his side protectively and pressed a kiss to your temple.

Oh?

Who the hell was this man, and what the hell had you done to Bucky Barnes?

—

Dinner was homemade.

More specifically, dinner was homemade by Bucky.

Sam had to find a place to sit down when you told him that. He blinked at the plate in front of him, wondering why the hell it looked so… appetising.

“Bucky can’t cook,” he whispered to himself, utterly baffled.

Joaquin shrugged.

“He can now,” you said in a small but proud voice, giving Bucky a playful nudge. “He wanted to impress me.”

Bucky huffed, but even as he rolled his eyes, his hand found your knee under the table, rubbing absentminded circles just because. “Did it work?”

You tapped your chin, pretending to think it over. “Mmmmm. Maybe.”

The usually grumpy super soldier actually grinned from ear to ear.

Sam had to rub his damn eyes.

This wasn’t real. This had to be an illusion. Maybe he’d fallen asleep on the couch, and this was some bizarre fever dream where Bucky was, for lack of a better word, domesticated.

Meanwhile, Joaquin had already taken a bite. His eyes went wide. “Damn, Buck.” He shoveled another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and made a pleased noise. “You’ve been hiding this skill from us?”

Bucky shrugged, “Wasn’t for you.”

You turned to him. “It’s very good, my love.”

My love.

Since when was Bucky alright with pet names?

Instead of scowling or brushing it off, Bucky just squeezed your hand with his metal fingers, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.

This was Bucky Barnes. Bucky “I’m not exactly a people person” Barnes. Bucky “respect my personal space or I’ll kill you” Barnes.

And here he was, letting you call him ‘my love.’

Sam needed another minute. Maybe even a drink. Anything to help process whatever the hell was happening in front of him.

Joaquin, already on his third bite, didn’t seem as concerned. He waved his fork in the air, nodding approvingly. “I’m impressed. If this is what love does to you, maybe I need to find someone, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky said, “I’m sure someone, somewhere, is into birds.”

Joaquin groaned. 

You giggled, but nudged Bucky’s shoulder anyway. “Be nice.”

Bucky just grumbled under his breath as you leaned in and pressed gentle kisses to his metal knuckles.

And that was it. That was the moment Sam lost all grip on reality.

Because Bucky Barnes—the man who used to flinch at the idea of being touched—literally melted.

He let out a pleased hum as he leaned into you, eyes closing for just a second like he was soaking in the moment. And when he opened them again Sam could’ve sworn they were actual heart eyes.

—

Over dinner, Joaquin—ever the eager one—started asking about your fieldwork.

“So, that human trafficking bust you pulled off last month,” he said, buzzing with admiration. “That was insane. I mean, the level of planning—”

You flushed, ducking your head slightly. “Oh, um. It wasn’t that impressive.”

Joaquin shook his head. “Are you kidding? You dismantled their operation without any collateral damage!”

You let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh, “I just… I try my best.”

Sam set down his fork, “How many did you have to fight?”

You hesitated for a beat. “Seven,” you admitted, pulling down your sleeves as casually as you could manage. Your knuckles were still scarred, bruises blooming beneath. “It would’ve just been five, but the two younger ones—I told them to stand down but I guess they thought they could take me.”

Bet they underestimated you, Sam thought. 

“How old were they?” Sam asked.

“Probably barely out of their teens,” You shrugged. “They were involved, but… they were scared. Probably in too deep to see another way out. I had to put them down, but I pulled my punches. You know the drill.”

Sam tilted his head, knowing firsthand what it’s like. “That can’t be easy.”

You looked at him and shrugged. “It’s not.”

Joaquin, on the other hand, was still practically vibrating in his seat. “I just don’t get how you’re so effective without even being—” He gestured vaguely. “You know. Mean.”

You blinked. “Mean?”

“Yeah, like… I kinda thought you’d be scarier.”

Bucky snorted into his drink. “She is scary.”

Joaquin shot him a skeptical look. “Dude. She just apologised for taking the last bread roll.”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “She’s polite. That doesn’t mean she won’t put you in the ground.”

Joaquin turned to you. “Would you?”

You tilted your head, considering. “If you threatened Bucky, maybe.”

Sam let out a laugh, then shook his head. “I just don’t get it.” He said, “How do you go from that”— he made a concerning stabby gesture— “to this?”

He wasn’t wrong. Sometimes, even Bucky had to admit that the contrast was ridiculous.

You sighed, picking at your food. “Because after all that I just wanna go home.”

Joaquin raised a brow. “And do what? Train?”

“No, I wanna be a gremlin,” you said, amused. “I wanna wear my pajamas, turn off my phone, and pretend I don’t know what daylight is.”

Bucky grinned, nudging your foot under the table. “Tell ‘em about the crafts, sweetheart.”

You shot him a look, but Bucky just smirked.

Joaquin looked up. “Crafts?”

You let out a deep breath, feeling your face heat up. “I, um. I like making things.”

Sam’s brows furrowed. “Like… what?”

Sam had no idea he was about to sit through a thirty-minute lecture on yarn selection.

Strangely, he kind of enjoyed it.

—

By the end of the night, you had warmed up to them both.

Sam had never seen anything like it—you were quiet, sure, but once you got comfortable, you were easy to talk to. It felt… so at odds with the stories he’d heard about you.

And when Joaquin offhandedly mentioned that he’d always wanted to learn how to crochet, your eyes lit up.

“Oh! I could teach you,” you said, eyes jumping to your feet. “It’s actually very relaxing after sending seven human traffickers to a hospital.”

Joaquin choked on his drink, but had a delighted grin on his face. “Yeah?”

“I’ll give you the basics now.” You turned, holding out a hand. “Jamie, can you pass me the yarn?”

Sam could’ve sworn he heard the record scratch in real-time.

Jamie?

The only two people who had ever called Bucky by any variety of his first name were his therapist and Zemo, and Bucky hated both.

But when you said it, Bucky just… melted.

No grumbling. No don’t call me thats.

Just a look of hopeless adoration as he grabbed the yarn and handed it over like a man under a spell.

And so, with Alpine curled up on Bucky’s lap, you spent the next twenty minutes patiently teaching Joaquin how to crochet.

“Okay, so start by making a slipknot,” you instructed.

Joaquin followed your movements, tongue out like it would help his concentration. “Like this?”

“Just tighten it a little.”

Bucky watched with his chin propped on his fist, looking so ridiculously in love that Sam actually had to look away for a second.

“Dude,” Joaquin said, still focused on his stitches. “Your girlfriend is my new best friend.”

Bucky shrugged. “Get in line.”

Joaquin grinned at you. “Hey, if I can’t do it myself, will you make me a glove or something’?”

Before you could answer, Bucky cut in, “No.”

You looked at your boyfriend. “No?”

Bucky crossed his arms. “I had to earn my sweater. Torres doesn’t get free stuff.”

Sam stared at him. “I can’t believe you own a handmade sweater.”

Bucky shrugged. “Several, actually.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

Bucky just smiled, reaching for your hand, tracing slow circles against your palm.

“Yeah, you do.”

And Sam, watching the way Bucky looked at you, like you were the best thing to ever happen to him, had to admit—

Yeah.

He did.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

That Damn Phone

Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings - fluff, flirting, some swearing

Word count - 3020

a/n - I got this idea after seeing this video on tiktok, even though I know this has been done before on tumblr, and I wanted to write my own version. This was supposed to be posted a month ago, but I procrastinated and somehow ended up rewriting the whole thing💀. Also idk if I want to do a part 2 to this yet. Anyways, I hope you enjoy and thanks in advance for reading :)

Summary: After seeing a video of a couple do a certain trend on tiktok, you can't get it off your mind but decide not to bring it up to Bucky to avoid the embarrassment. Though, with Bucky being Bucky, he finds out anyways.

You sit on the couch waiting for Bucky to come home, passing the time by scrolling through Tiktok. You had planned on just being on the app for a little bit before opening your book currently sitting on your coffee table, but you keep getting absorbed in one video after another.

One video in particular catches your eye, so much so that you end up spending the next ten minutes reading comments and freaking out with everyone else. The video was of a girl asking her boyfriend to try a popular trend that all of the readers had brought to the internet.

You watch as the girl stands in the doorway and practically melts into the ground as her boyfriend towers over her, gently lifting up her chin to maintain eye contact. The girl’s face is covered in happiness and shock as she laughs and pulls away from the guy.

You can’t help but giggle along with her as butterflies fill your stomach, feeling the tension through the screen.

This would be fun to try with Bucky, but you don’t really want to ask him. It’s not like he would have a problem with fulfilling your wishes, but you know that he knows the effect he has on you, and this would just be added to the list of the things Bucky can purposefully do to make you flustered.

Bucky knows how you struggle to hold eye contact after a while of having his blue eyes stare back into yours when the two of you are having a conversation, and he has no problem with using it against you. He knows how flustered you get when he gets all up in your personal space, whispering teasing words into your ear to make you laugh and shy away.

He loves the fact that you still get nervous around him, even though the two of you have been dating for a while – long enough for those nerves to get thrown out of the window.

A memory suddenly enters your thoughts of Bucky being his usual flirty self before a night out:

You had just put on your new dress you had bought recently for tonight’s date. You look at yourself in the mirror, turning from side to side to make sure you’re satisfied with your appearance.

You see Bucky through the reflection in the mirror as he walks into the room, fixing the sleeves of his dress shirt. “Alright, doll, are you ready to head ou- woah,”Bucky begins to say, but cuts himself off when his eyes land on you. “Well what do we have here?”

You turn around to face him, giving him a bashful smile. “I just bought it last week. What do you think, do you like it?”

“I love it,” Bucky admits as he walks closer to you, taking his time on purpose as he lets his eyes run up and down your figure. He grabs your hand and makes you do a spin before facing the two of you towards the mirror. He pulls your back into his chest as he runs his hands up and down your sides. “You look so gorgeous, darling.  I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you.”

You let out a small laugh as you can’t help but roll your eyes at his compliment.

Bucky chuckles. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, I’m serious.” He moves his lips down to your ear to whisper, “you know, if you’re not feeling up for going out, we could skip the dinner and go straight for dessert.”

You give him a confused look, but it immediately goes away as he continues his statement, his voice dropping even lower. His eyes meet yours in the mirror as a smirk grows across his lips.

“...I’m suddenly in the mood for something sweet, and I’m pretty sure you could help me out with my craving.”

You gasp as you move out of his grasp, playfully pushing him away.

“Bucky!”

Bucky just laughs at your expression. “Eventually those nerves will be gone, doll, I don’t care how long I have to work on you.”

“Okay, stop!” you tell him with a smile as you turn and head into the bathroom to finish getting ready.

You suddenly hear a car door close, tearing you away from your thoughts. Your eyes widen as your heart picks up speed, only just now realizing how much time has passed when you glance at the time on your phone.

As soon as you hear Bucky’s keys jingle from the other side of the door, you quickly save the video and scroll past it, trying to act nonchalant as Bucky opens the front door. You greet him with a small smile as he walks over to you.

The smell of his cologne fills your nostrils, sending warmth through your body as he comes up behind you and leans over the couch to give you a kiss on the cheek.

“You’re in the exact same spot you were in when I left you,” Bucky chuckles as he rests his arms on the back of the couch, his eyes staring directly into yours. “What have you been doing this whole time?”

“Nothing really, just scrolling through random videos,” you shrug.

“Have you been on the same app?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowed as he glances down at the current video playing on your phone of a woman doing her makeup, before sending you a look.

“...maybe,” you shyly admit as you look away, causing Bucky to shake his head in fake disappointment. 

“You told me you were planning on finishing your book,” Bucky nods his head towards the now abandoned book on the table. 

“I was going to, but-,” you cut yourself off as Bucky gives you a teasing look. “It’s really addictive, okay! You would understand if you’d actually give it a chance.”

“If it’s going to take up my day like it does yours, I don’t want any part of it,” Bucky says, putting his hands up in surrender as he backs up and makes his way towards the stairs. “I would like to keep what’s left of my mind.”

You roll your eyes at his response. Your eyes flicker towards the book in front of you before trying to turn your attention back onto your phone, but the video from earlier keeps playing in your mind as you subconsciously scroll.

Should you really ask him to do this trend? Should you do it now? You could wait until he’s already standing next to you so it seems casual. Should you just scrap the idea and stick to daydreaming?

Your mind continues to turn, and after a while of not being able to come to a decision, you let out a groan and slump further into the couch.

“Everything okay over there?” you hear Bucky ask, making you jump a little as you turn your head.

You watch as he pulls a shirt over his head while coming down the stairs. He’s changed into comfortable clothes instead of his outfit he wore to hangout with Sam.

For a moment, you get distracted by the snug fit of Bucky’s shirt, specifically the way it clings to the top of his bionic arms and fits around his chest and-

What the hell is your problem?

Bucky gives you a confused look from your delayed response. 

You clear your throat. “Yeah, just…thinking,” you respond, shaking your head as if to try and shake the thoughts from your head.

Not completely believing you, but deciding to brush it off, Bucky gives you a look as he makes his way into the kitchen. You let out a breath at the tiny bullet you just dodged.

Maybe it would have been better to just read the damn book instead, that way you could just enter another world and fantasize all you want about a fictional man instead of creeping Bucky out.

“What do you want for dinner?” Bucky calls out from the inside of the kitchen. “Do you want to have something delivered or do you want to try that new recipe you found online?”

“We’ve been eating out all week, we should probably just try that recipe,” you call back. You stand up from your spot on the couch and stretch, before making your way to Bucky. “I can take care of everything since it was my idea after all.”

Bucky glances at you as you walk in. “Don’t worry about it, sweets, I don’t have a problem with making it for you,” he tells you, his voice clashing with the sound of him rummaging through cabinets for cookware and ingredients.

“Well at least let me help,” you say, tilting your head as you give Bucky one of your sweet smiles. 

He playfully scoffs at you, but gives in. “Alright, alright. If you insist,” he tells you as he leans in to place a quick kiss on your forehead.

“Let me just use the bathroom first. Oh, and I should probably go change in case things get messy,” you tell him, subconsciously placing your phone down on the counter before walking away.

Bucky gives you a nod, and continues to get everything ready. When he notices your unlocked phone on the counter a couple of feet away from him, his attention shifts.

He has a habit of looking through the TikTok videos you’ve watched to see what you enjoy and find funny, or to give him ideas for things he could do from you. You’ve caught him a couple of times, and each time you would playfully scold him and take back your phone, and Bucky would just laugh it off knowing that you were joking.

It’s the closest he will get to actually using the app and he would rather die before admitting that it has been helpful or that he too has stumbled across some interesting things.

Bucky stops shuffling through videos when he sees one that you’ve liked and added to your favorites — the video of the girl and her boyfriend.

His eyebrows raise as he watches the video play, an evil smirk developing on his lips once he realizes why you’ve added this certain video to your favorites.

As he hears your footsteps get closer, Bucky quickly scrolls back down to the video that was paused on your phone before you left and moves back to his previous position on the other side of the kitchen. He clears his throat as he busies his hands to prevent you from being suspicious,

“Okay, let’s get started,” you announce as you enter the kitchen, rolling up your sleeves in the process. “Oh! Let me pull the recipe video up, I have it saved.”

“Of course it’s on that damn app,” Bucky murmurs as he watches you find the video, causing you to quietly let out a giggle.

After giving the video another run through and looking through the comments, you feel confident in what has to be done. You turn on some background music before placing a pot of water onto the stove for it to boil. When you go over to Bucky to help him cut up the vegetables, he tells you that he’s got it.

“Come on, Bucky. Give me something to do,” you groan, hopping onto the counter to watch him work. 

“You could read your book. You know, the book you’ve been wanting to finish reading for a while, but you keep putting it off? That sounds like a good idea to me,” Bucky gives you a teasing look as he glances over at you, and you just glare at him in return. 

You pettily let out a loud huff and cross your arms across your chest. “Well, when you tell me to do it, I no longer want to.”

Bucky chuckles at your response as he continues slicing and dicing. 

Having nothing better to do at the moment, the tiktok video from earlier enters your mind, making you open up an app to read some fanfiction. After noticing a smile repeatedly make its way onto your face from the corner of his eye, Bucky steals a look at your screen. 

“Are you reading a book on your phone?” Bucky raises his eyebrows.

Well, reading fanfiction is technically like reading a book, so….

“Yeah, why?”

Bucky stops chopping altogether, turning his attention to you in disbelief. “So you’ll read on your phone, but not in real life?”

“Technically, this is still real life – the words are just on a screen instead of paper,” you give him an innocent smile before looking back down at your phone.

Bucky playfully rolls his eyes at you, before turning his attention to the vegetables. That's when he remembers something. Bucky turns back to you.

“Y’know, speaking of books, have you ever heard of this thing called booktok?” Bucky asks. There’s a teasing look on his face, but you don’t notice it yet.

Confused, but not giving it much thought, you direct your attention at Bucky. “Yeah, but why do you know about it?”

He gives you a shrug. “I just saw something about it, and it seemed like something you’d know about.”

Thinking that the conversation is over, you look back down at your phone.

But, it’s not.

“You know, I saw this interesting video recently and it had something to do with booktok also. Maybe you’ve seen it?” Bucky continues, trying to hide the smirk from growing on his face.

Once again, you look at Bucky. This time your eyebrows are furrowed, getting the feeling that he’s up to something.

“I don’t know, maybe. What was it about?”

Bucky turns back to the vegetables on the counter and continues to chop, but his focus is still mainly on you.

“It was a video of this girl and her boyfriend, and in the video she asks him to do this trend with her–”

He’s not talking about- No, there’s no way.

“--you can see her set the camera up and ask her boyfriend to stand in the doorway, and she joins him.”

You feel your heart drop as you finally notice the teasing tone in his voice as he talks and the hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips.

Oh. My. God.

Bucky looks back over at you. “Have you seen this trend?”

You’re speechless for a second, but you quickly find your words. You swallow. You’re looking back down at your phone when you respond. “Um, yeah I think so.”

“Apparently all the people involved in this booktok thing know about it. She asks him to recreate a scene in a book where the man towers over her and leans in, and apparently a lot of women seem to enjoy it,” Bucky continues to innocently ramble as if there’s no ulterior motive to this speech, but you know there is. Then Bucky asks, “Do you?”

You don’t know if you should strangle him or curl up in a ball and die of embarrassment.

“Do I what?” you ask, trying to seem as unaffected as possible.

“Do you enjoy things like that?” he simply asks as he stops chopping to wash his hands.

This smug piece of shit.

“Did you go through my saved videos?” you ask, deciding it’s time to drop the facade and let the shock show on your face.

Bucky chooses to do the same; letting the smirk fully emerge on his face, Bucky dries off his hands and leans on the counter with a hand on his hip, giving you his full attention.

He shrugs. “Maybe.” 

You let your jaw drop. “Why?”

He shrugs again. “Why not?”

“You know what? I think you should cook by yourself,” you huff. 

You’ve made up your mind – you’ll crawl up in a ball and die.

You hop off the counter and begin to make your way out of the kitchen, but bucky stops you.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be upset,” Bucky chuckles as he pulls you back and backs you into the kitchen counter, keeping his hands on your hips.

You really hate your body for enjoying the feeling of being trapped between him and the counter at a time like this.

“I’m not upset,” you lie, avoiding eye contact as you fold your arms across your chest.

“See, you're telling me one thing and your face is telling me something else, sweetheart. You’re not even looking at me,” Bucky smiles, and you roll your eyes.

“Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me,” you tell him, causing him to let out a laugh.

“Oh, you’re really upset,” Bucky says. When you don’t say anything, he adds. “Come on, doll, I’m sorry. How can I make it up to you?”

“Like I said earlier, you should cook by yourself,” you say. You make another move to leave, but Bucky just tightens his grip to golf you there. You let out a groan. “Let me go.”

“No can do, not until you're no longer mad at me.”

“We’re gonna be here for a while then,” you mumble.

Bucky moves his head to try to get you to look at him, but you just move too. Bucky breathes out a laugh. He steps away from you as he says, “I’ve got a better idea.”

You watch him go to the now boiling pot of water and move it, before reaching to turn off the stove. When he turns back to you, there’s a different look on his face.

Uh oh. 

“What are you doing?” you ask and slowly start making your way towards the kitchen entrance.

“I gotta cheer you up somehow,” he smirks, grabbing your phone out of your hand and stuffing it in his pocket.

“What the hell are y-,” you begin, but cut yourself off with a scream as your tossed upside down from Bucky throwing you over his shoulder, “Bucky!”

“Would you stop?” Buck laughs as his grip on you tightens from your squirming. “We have to recreate some scenes for booktok.”

“What about dinner? Everything is still out,” you say as he begins to make his way up the stairs.

“Don’t worry, we'll be back. Hopefully.”

Like what you see? check out my masterlist :)

shall I? SHALL. I.

All American All-Star

Summary : Falling for the club’s American striker, Bucky Barnes, was never part of the plan— especially since your father happens to own the club.

Pairing : Football player!Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Football/soccer au. Bucky plays in a Premier League Club. Lots and lots of sexual tension, sexual themes and references, mentions of injury, FLUFF! You are a statistical analyst for the club, cursing. Bucky is in his early thirties, and your age is never specified (though I wrote her around mid-20s in mind.)

Word Count : 16.6k

Notes : Hi all! This fic completely self indulgent. Idk if y'all noticed but I'm currently in my forbidden romance writing phase so please allow me to sweat this out before latching on to my next trope obsession. Also, putting a bunch of Marvel Comics Characters in here was so fun. Enjoy!

James Buchanan Barnes was a curiosity.

An American—already an anomaly in the top tiers of European football—who had spent the bulk of his career bouncing between MLS clubs before making a surprise leap to English football in his early thirties. The media called him a late bloomer. A gamble. Some pundits questioned why any top flight club would take a risk on an aging striker with no prior experience in the Champions League.

Your father, the owner of one of the biggest clubs in Europe, called him an investment. And you were the one who found him.

As a statistical data analyst for your father’s club, your job was simple in theory but far more complicated in execution. You spent your days with the coaching staff analysing the numbers, predicting patterns, helping scouts identify potential transfers, and finding ways to improve the existing squad. You didn’t deal in gut feelings or media hype. You dealt in cold, hard data.

Before the season started, you’d gone through dozens of scouting reports, match footage, and advanced performance analytics when Barnes’ name kept appearing over and over again. It didn’t make sense at first— no media outlet had flagged him as extraordinary, no clubs mentioned him as a top target. And yet… the numbers told a different story.

His expected goals were absurdly high, suggesting he was consistently getting into dangerous positions but lacked the right system or teammates to convert his chances. His pressing stats were through the roof, putting him in the top percentile of forwards worldwide. His passing accuracy rivaled some of the best midfielders in Europe, which was especially great for a team begging for a versatile forward.

Besides, his fitness levels were impeccable. You saw the footage of Bucky playing full matches week in and week out, covering more ground than almost anyone in his league and rarely ever needing to get substituted out. And yet, no one saw him as someone out of the ordinary.

See, the problem wasn’t Bucky— it was the league.

The MLS, for all its growth, wasn’t built for a player like him. The tactical setups were different, the pressing structures not suited to how intense he could be at times. He thrived in high-intensity situations, in quick transitions, in teams that played with a high line and aggression. The numbers suggested that with the right system—a system like your club’s—he could finally convert on his numbers.

You took the data to your father. You built the case. You made the argument that Bucky Barnes wasn’t a gamble— he was an opportunity.

And he listened. He signed him.

July 9th — The Meeting

The first time you met Bucky Barnes in person, he was standing in the middle of the training ground, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looking around like he was still adjusting to the fact that he was playing the top flight in European football. You could probably guess that he had been dreaming of this for years— most Americans in the sport did.

He was taller than you expected. Broader than most strikers. If you tilted your head a little, he looked more like a soldier than a footballer. His brown hair spilled under his ears, jaw dusted with scruff, and the way he stood made it clear he wasn’t here to waste time.

You didn’t let yourself stare. Not for long, anyway.

“Barnes.” Your club’s manager, Abraham Erskine, was older, a German veteran with a kind face and the mind of a genius. He extended a hand. “Welcome.”

Bucky dropped his bag and shook it. “Happy to be here, Coach.”

Typical American, calling everyone coach. To be fair, Erskine’s gotten used to the English lads like Brian Braddock in the club calling him gaffer, so this might be a welcome change.

“This is Alexei Shostakov, the assistant manager,” Erskine continued, gesturing to the towering Russian beside him. He looked intimidating, but those who knew him understood he had a soft spot for hard working players— he even had two daughters playing in Spain.

“Coach,” Bucky said again, nodding.

“And this,” Erskine gestured to the man standing off to the side with his arms crossed, “is our fitness trainer, Sam Wilson. Another American, so at least you won’t feel too out of place.”

Sam stepped forward, grinning. “You got lucky, man. They bring in a lot of South Americans who hate the weather, but a New Yorker? You’re gonna fit right in.”

Bucky smirked. “Good to know, Coach.”

That made Sam laugh. “You can just call me Sam.”

“Noted, Coach.”

The group chuckled, but you stayed quiet, watching Bucky carefully. He hadn’t looked your way yet— not properly. You wondered if he even knew who you were.

“And finally,” Erskine turned to you, “our lead data analyst.” He didn’t mention your last name, but he didn’t have to. Everyone in the club knew who you were— partly because you’re the owner’s daughter.

Bucky’s eyes landed on you. “So you’re the one who got me here.”

You lifted your chin, “No,” you insisted. “Your numbers did that.”

He hummed in approval. 

“Guess that means I owe you one,” Bucky said, shifting his bag over his shoulder. Then, he winked. Heat curled in your stomach, but you kept your expression neutral. You weren’t about to be thrown off by another cocky footballer.

“You can pay me back by scoring goals,” you replied.

He grinned. “Deal.”

And just like that, you had the feeling that Bucky Barnes was going to be a problem for you.

July 10th — The Signing

He would be officially signed the next day. 

The press conference room was packed. You counted at least 30 reporters and twice as many cameras, all flashing lights— everything you expected when your club unveiled a major signing. But when your father told Bucky he would be the one sitting next to him, he had shook his head. “No offense, sir, but I think the person who got me here should be up there with me.”

Which was how you ended up here, seated beside him, a club-branded microphone in front of you while the media buzzed like hornets.

Bucky looked relaxed. He had done this before— press conferences, interviews, the media circus— nothing was new to him. He sat with commanding confidence, hands clasped on the table, a charming smile on his frustratingly beautiful face. 

You, on the other hand, weren’t used to this. You dealt in numbers, statistics, strategy—not public scrutiny. Your father had warned you the press might have questions. Some about Bucky. Some about you.

“James,” one of the reporters started, leaning forward, “you’re thirty-two years old, making your first jump into top-tier European football. Some would say that’s past your prime—what do you say to critics who think this club is taking a gamble on you?”

Bucky didn’t even blink. “If I was worried about what critics said, I wouldn’t be here.” A small chuckle rippled through the room, but his expression remained calm. “Some players peak at 20, some at 30. I know what I can do. The coaching staff knows what I can do. She—” he looked to you, “—knows what I can do. And in a few weeks, everyone else will know too.”

He had probably been answering some version of that question for months now.

Then, the attention turned to you.

“And for you,” another reporter said, shifting their focus, “there’s been a lot of talk about your role in this signing. You’re one of the youngest analysts in the sport. But more notably, you’re the club owner’s daughter. There are some who say this opportunity—this job—wouldn’t be yours if it weren’t for your last name.”

Your heartbeat was beating out of your chest, but you kept your expression neutral. “I would say,” you replied, “that my work speaks for itself.”

The reporter raised an eyebrow, clearly fishing for a reaction. “Still, nepotism is a fair concern, isn’t it?”

Before you could answer, Bucky leaned forward, casually resting an elbow on the table. “Let me ask you this,” he said, tilting his head. “How many analysts do you think flagged me as a top signing last year?”

The room was silent.

Bucky smiled, almost smug. “None. Except her.” He jerked his chin toward you. “The scouting reports didn’t call me extraordinary. The media didn’t put me on any ‘best transfer’ lists. But she ran the numbers, she saw something no one else did, and now I’m sitting here, signing with one of the biggest clubs in the world.”

He turned to you again before he looked back at the reporters. “So, I don’t know about you,” he said easily, “but I’d say she earned her seat at this table.”

The room buzzed. You weren’t sure whether you wanted to thank him or kick him under the table. Yes, he had answered for you, but he had also defended you. Publicly.

And the way he was looking at you now, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth?

He was going to be your biggest distraction.

—

After the press conference, you needed a moment. You weren’t used to the attention, but you answered as best you could about what you saw in Bucky’s playing style, on his game intelligence. 

After, you stayed behind, letting the media shuffle out while Bucky handled the rest of the pleasantries. You weren’t sure why or how you ended up in the first team changing room—perhaps you needed somewhere empty and quiet. A place to breathe. Since it wasn’t a match day, it was practically abandoned. Apparently, you weren’t the only one who needed a moment.

Bucky was there, leaning against a wall, hands in the pockets of his new training kit. He looked at you as you stepped inside, and for the first time since you’d met him, he wasn’t playing to a crowd. No arrogant smirk. No practiced charm. Just Bucky Barnes, standing in a place that hasn’t felt like home yet.

You hesitated, then cleared your throat. “I just wanted to say… thank you.”

His brows lifted slightly. “For what?”

You gave him a seriously? look. “You know for what.”

A smile ghosted across his lips again. “Figured someone had to say it.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I know,” he said easily. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

He wasn’t just some flashy signing. He wasn’t just numbers on a spreadsheet. He was someone who knew what it was like to be underestimated, to be doubted. You had found him because of the data, but now, standing here, you realised, he understood you in a way the numbers never could.

Bucky took a step closer, his voice quieter now. “They’re always gonna have something to say. About me. About you.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean they’re right.”

Your chest tightened. You held his stare for a moment before nodding. “Guess we’ll just have to prove them wrong.”

August 10th — Pre-Season friendly

Bucky had been with the club for a month now. Training had been intense, the pressure relentless, but he was handling it—mostly. 

Pre-season was always a mixed bag. Some teams used it to experiment, to test tactics, to let their new signings settle in. Others took it more seriously, wanting to build momentum before the real game. Your club had a bit of both— Erskine was meticulous, and Alexei, well, he just wanted to win every match, no matter the stakes.

Which was why the 3-0 pre-season loss to Ajax stung.

The squad had been sluggish, the chemistry wasn't there yet, and… Bucky had struggled. He wasn’t himself. His movements were a second too slow, his pressing wasn’t as aggressive, and when he did get into good positions, he couldn’t finish them. It was a team issue as much as an individual one, but Bucky saw it as a personal failure.

So when the final whistle blew and the players trudged into the tunnel, heads down, you knew something was going to give.

After all, the assistant manager wasn’t one to sugarcoat things, and when the team walked off the pitch, Alexei let Bucky have it.

The shouting started in the dressing room, but the walls were thin enough that you heard it from the hallway. Alexei’s booming voice wasn’t hard to miss.

“You are too slow in transition! You hesitate—this is not MLS, Barnes!”

“I know that.”

“Then act like it!”

Soon, they were yelling over each other. When you finally stepped inside, you found Bucky and Alexei squared up, the rest of the squad caught between wanting to intervene and knowing better.

“Americans,” Alexei muttered, exasperated, before pointing at you. “You deal with him.”

Then he was gone.

The room was quiet. No one wanted to be here any longer than they had to be, least of all Bucky.

“Bucky…” you started, quieter now.

He let out a deep breath, running a hand through his damp hair, sweat still clinging to him from the match. He turned, forcing a small smile for you. “I… I need time. I’ll see you at training tomorrow, yeah?”

You nodded, though you weren’t convinced.

August 11th — Training Center

The next day, Bucky was pushing himself too hard.

You saw it before training even started— he was the first one out, running sprints alone while you and the rest of the coaching staff set up. He trained with the squad, but even after, when most of the team had made their way back into the facility, he stayed to do more drills, shooting practice, more sprints. And it wasn’t helping. He was overcompensating, trying to force his body to match the pace of his mind. 

You sighed, tucking your tablet under your arm.

“Wagner,” you said. You had been working with the keeper on the sidelines for the last fifteen minutes, showing him how he could make long passes more accurate. “Think about what I said. We’ll go over more footage tomorrow.”

Kurt Wagner nodded, and you turned on your heel, walking straight for Bucky, catching him before he could disappear again.

“My office,” you said firmly.

He wiped his face with the hem of his training top, squinting at you in the afternoon sun. “What?”

“Now, Barnes.”

—

Your office wasn’t anything special, just a private space tucked into the coaching room so you could work numbers without any distractions, but it was yours. Bucky stepped inside hesitantly, like he didn’t quite belong here, then leaned against the desk as you pulled up the match against Ajax on your screen. 

You didn’t say anything at first. Just loaded up the footage, clipped the moments you needed, and let him watch.

His arms crossed over his chest as he took the moments where he pressed well, the chances he did create, the runs he made that were the right decision— even if he struggled to finish. Then you pulled up the heat map, the positioning data, the sequences where he got lost in transition.

"You did good," you said simply.

Bucky snorted. “We lost 3-0.”

“Yes, but you did good,” you repeated, clicking through several paused screenshots of his movements on the pitch. “Look here. Your pressing is still in the top percentile. You forced three turnovers in dangerous areas. That’s good.”

You clicked again.

“This run?” You gestured. “This was perfect. If the midfield had spotted it, you would’ve been through on goal. You were making the right movements.”

Another screenshot.

“This, though,” you pointed at a moment in the 70th minute, “this is where you need to improve. You hesitated. You had a second to get the job done, but you tried to take the extra touch.”

Bucky sighed, leaning back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s on me.” 

“Listen,” you said. “You’re not playing bad, Bucky. You’re adjusting. This is a different pace, different tactics, different system. You’re learning.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose. “Alexei doesn’t think so.”

“Alexei wants perfection,” you argued. “He yells at everyone. Even Helmut Zemo.”

Bucky blinked. Zemo? The ice-cold, disciplined defender hailed as one of the best in the world? The same guy he was still struggling to get along with? That earned a small smile out of him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Nearly murdered him last season.”

Bucky huffed, shaking his head. “I just… I don’t want to be a mistake.”

You shook your head. "You’re not."

August 17th — Premier League, Matchday 1

It wasn’t long before the season started, and even Bucky was surprised that he made it in the first team. But making it meant Erskine had believed in him— he wasn’t going to disappoint.

The first team they played was Liverpool. Bucky has heard a lot about Anfield’s ruthless atmosphere, but this was way more intense than he could have possibly imagined. The stadium was a sea of red and the team was a far more experienced side than he was used to. 

See, Bucky had played in big matches before, but nothing like this. The intensity, the tempo, was on another level entirely.

He kept his head, though. He remembered what you told him. No extra touches. Make quicker decisions.

He remembered what Erskine drilled into the team. Exploit the space behind their fullbacks. Don’t hesitate.

So when a counterattack sparked in the 68th minute, when Wagner’s long pass reached Brian Braddock on the right flank, he spotted Bucky darting between the center-backs.

They were currently 1-0 down, but Bucky made sure the pressure didn’t get to him. He made his run.

Braddock’s pass was perfect, curling into Bucky’s path. The defender was closing in, but Bucky took one clean touch with his left, then struck with his right.

Precise. Back of the net.

1-1.

The away section erupted.

Bucky barely had time to register before his teammates crashed into him, Braddock shouting in his ear, “Fucking told you, mate!”

He even felt Zemo’s hand on his back.

But he barely heard the praise. In his mind, all he could think about was you—the analysis, the breakdown, the way you had pointed out exactly where he needed to improve. And he had.

It ended 1-1, but it was a good start. At the very least, he had made a statement. Bucky Barnes had arrived in the Premier League.

—

The dressing room was still crowded when Bucky found Erskine and your father. They weren’t disappointed, but they weren’t exactly jumping with glee, either.

“I want private sessions with her,” Bucky said, still catching his breath.

Erskine frowned. “Who?”

Bucky said your name. 

Your father raised a brow. “She works with everyone.”

“I know,” Bucky said. “But she— she pulled me aside last week and it helped. If you let me have just an hour with her the day after every match, I could— I will adjust faster.”

Your father exchanged a glance with Erskine. The German manager stroked his chin, considering his suggestion.

“It’s an unusual request,” Erskine admitted.

“I just scored, didn’t I?” Bucky said, dead serious.

That made them both think.

Your father exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Fine,” he said. “I'll add it to her schedule.”

—

When you got back to your apartment, you stared at your calendar, lips pressed together as you read the update.

Post-Match Analysis — Private Session with Barnes

The day after every match.

August 18th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis 

You weren’t sure what you were expecting when Bucky walked into your office after training, still fresh from the adrenaline of Alexei's harsh training regiment. His hair was damp from a shower, his training kit swapped for a plain hoodie and sweats.

You, on the other hand, were still buzzing from the past two meetings. 

Post-match analysis was already part of your routine. You did one with the whole team earlier today, and you just got off the coaching staff meeting. Now, you had to do it one-on-one with him. Alone.

You gestured to the chair beside your desk as he sat down, his blue eyes darting to your monitor. You already had the footage pulled up.

“Alright,” you started, keeping it professional. “Let’s start with the good.”

You clicked the play button, and the clip of his goal played on the screen. The moment the ball left his foot. The clean strike, the ripple of the net. Bucky watched it in silence.

“You saw the space,” you narrated, “You didn’t hesitate. One touch, then the shot. Perfect.”

Bucky hummed, his fingers tapping against his knee. “That’s because of what you said,” he admitted.

You blinked. “What?”

“Last week. After Ajax.” His eyes met your as he leaned forward, “You told me what to do.”

You cleared your throat. “Well, you listened.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he just shrugged. 

You shook your head and turned back to the screen, pulling up a different clip.

“Now, let’s talk about where you can improve.”

Bucky leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he focused in.

“This movement in the 32nd minute,” you said, slowing down the footage. “You were pressing well, but you ran too early here—” you paused the clip, circling an area on the screen, “—which left space behind you. Alexander-Arnold nearly exploited it.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “Shit. Yeah, I see it.”

You nodded, pulling up another clip. “And here, in the second half—you almost made the right run, but you checked over your shoulder for too long. It slowed you down.”

Bucky leaned closer, studying the footage. “So what do I do?”

You tapped a few buttons, overlaying a heat map of his movements. “The system we play—Erskine wants quick transitions. You can’t second-guess yourself. If you commit to a run, commit fully. Trust your teammates.”

Bucky nodded.

You tilted your head. “Why did you hesitate?”

He hesitated, tilting his head. “I—” He exhaled. “This league… I’m... I’m not used to people playing at my speed.”

“That’s normal,” you assured him. The Premier League had a much faster tempo than the MLS, after all. And that was exactly why he fit in here. “But you’re seeing the right plays. That’s half the battle.”

You pulled up another set of stats, showing him his passing accuracy, his pressing intensity, his shot conversion rate. “You weren’t perfect,” you said. “But you were effective.”

Bucky let out a deep breath, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

“Feels good,” he admitted. “Seeing it like this.”

“That’s the point,” you said.

After that, you could’ve sworn he looked at you a little too fondly.

August 25th — Premier League, Match day 2

You knew Arsenal would be tough. They had won their first game against a newly promoted team 5-0, and they looked formidable. Still, it was Bucky’s first game at home, and the crowd welcomed him and the other new signings like long-lost heroes— with banners raised and voices roaring. 

Then the match started.

Arsenal suffocated your midfield. The first goal came early—an incisive pass splitting your defense followed by a clean finish. You saw your defender, Lin Lie’s, frustration as he failed to get the ball. A goal for arsenal. 

1-0.

Then, in the 54th minute, Bucky found a pocket of space. He did a quick turn, a perfectly weighted through ball, and Joaquin Torres, another new signing many people saw as a Central American Wonderkid, took one touch, then another, before slotting it past the keeper. 

1-1. 

Then, disaster happened. Lin lunged in late on Arsenal’s striker inside the box. The whistle blew. There was no hesitation from the referee— it was a penalty. The keeper, Wagner, dove the wrong way.

2-1 to Arsenal.

Bucky nearly scored a goal in stoppage time, but the final whistle blew after it was saved, and that was that.

A loss.

As you walked down the tunnel, Lin Lie was already apologising, Bucky was staring at the ground. The team looked exhausted. 

Your work began tomorrow.

August 26th — Training Centre, Post-match Analysis

During the team meeting, you stood at the front of the room. The players were seated in front of you, some paying attention, others looking at the floor. 

"You all know why we’re here," you began, clicking the remote. The screen behind you showed the stats. "We had 34% possession. Arsenal completed 542 passes to our 287. They had 16 shots. We had 4. That’s not good enough."

You saw a few heads sinking— Bucky, Lin, and Wagner. Alexei was the first to speak after you. "We looked soft," he said, arms crossed. "We let them play their football. No aggression, no bite." 

Erskine took a different approach. "Structurally, our press was broken. Too many gaps. Arsenal exploited space between the lines." He pointed to the screen, where red circles highlighted defensive breakdowns. "If we don’t fix this, we’ll keep conceding."

You saw a few nods, but no one spoke. 

"Bucky," you said, turning to him. "You created and assisted our only goal, but you had six touches in the first half. Six. We didn’t get you enough of the ball."

He nodded slightly.

"Joaquin, you did well in moments, but you completed 64% of your passes. That has to improve. Lin…" You paused, seeing his jaw tighten. "The penalty was bad, but that wasn’t the only issue. You lost five duels in our defensive third."

He tilted his head, mouthing sorry. 

"Let’s fix it, then.” Erskine clapped his hands and started the training day. 

—

After shooting drills were done, Bucky had his one-on-one session with you. 

He was already in your office as you closed the door behind you, leaning against your desk.

"You know I can do more," he said before you could even speak.

"I do," you replied. "But you need the ball to do it. And right now, we’re not finding you in the right spaces."

Bucky took a deep breath. "We’re too slow in transition."

"Agreed. But you also need to demand it. You were too passive early on. We need you dictating play, not waiting for it to come to you."

He nodded. "I’ll work on it."

You could tell he hated losing. 

"Listen, you did well, all things considered," you said finally. "But you want to turn stats into results? Stop waiting for permission."

"I won't,” he promised.

September 1st — Premier League, Matchday 3

Abraham Erskine called this match the test. 

Newcastle won both their opening games. They came in confident, expecting to beat you the way Arsenal had. But today, you felt something different in the dressing room. The boys were more focused. They were hungry. 

And when the game started, you saw it.

The press was higher. The midfield was more coordinated. The movement was better. Bucky was everywhere, demanding the ball, dictating the rhythm. In the 28th minute, he made the difference. Torres crossed the ball to him in, and he managed to kick it in the bottom right corner with a left foot. 

1-0.

The stadium erupted.

The game was far from over, though. Newcastle tried counterattacking, tried to break through. Lin Lie, in a desperate attempt to redeem himself, put in the game of his life, and Zemo was a great help in the backline, too. And then, in the 78th minute, Pietro Maximoff, your box-to-box midfielder, latched onto a loose ball at the edge of the box and buried it. 2-0. Bucky tackled him in celebration. 

The final whistle blew. Your first home win of the season. Bucky’s first home win.

September 2nd — Training Center, post-match analysis

You weren’t surprised when Bucky was the first one in the building the next morning. Of course he was. Through the glass wall of the training room, you spotted him stretching, smiling like a kid who just got away with stealing sweets from a candy shop.

Later during your one-on-one session, he was grinning ear to ear the whole time. 

"You see that goal?" he asked immediately, pointing to the screen. "Perfect finish, huh?" 

You shrugged, trying not to stroke his ego. "It was decent." 

He let out a too-dramatic gasp, stepping closer. "Decent? Decent? I’m hurt, coach." 

"Stop calling me coach," you said, then held up your tablet. "You scored, yes. But you also lost four 1v1s."

His smile didn’t falter. Not even a little. “Mmm. And who won us the game?”

“You and Pietro,” you sighed.

“Me and Pietro!” He echoed.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t find it in you to be annoyed. After all, you knew he was joking around. He was still listening— you could almost see the gears in his head working, putting your suggestions in the back catalogue as he pretended to be smug and arrogant. “You’re unbearable when you win.”

“Oh, you love it.” His voice dipped dangerously low, his hand landing on your waist as he leaned in slightly.

Your brain short-circuited. That was new.

He must’ve realised it at the same time, because he immediately yanked his hand back. “Shit—I'm sorry— wait. I— that was inappropriate.”

“N-no,” you said, your voice coming out way too gentle to be fully professional. “It’s okay. You… can do that.”

Oh.

His eyes studied you, clearly shocked. Then, carefully he put his hand back, fingers splaying lightly against your waist.

Before you could even process how natural it felt—

“Ahem.”

You both snapped your heads toward the door.

Sam, ever the disciplined fitness coach, stood there, arms crossed with his brows raised. "Buck. I’m starting gym drills soon."

Bucky stepped back, his hands lingering just a little longer than necessary before he finally pulled away.

—

The team drills had gone well. Spirits were high after the win, and unsurprisingly, Bucky and Pietro had been at the center of it— running faster than anyone, joking around, even showing off a little. Pietro had even jokingly called him old man once or twice, and he responded with a lighthearted scowl.

Now, as the squad made their way to the cafeteria, Bucky grabbed his water bottle by the edge of the gym, where Sam was sitting on a bench, watching him with an annoying smirk.

"Man, you are so screwed," Sam said casually, taking a sip of his own drink.

Bucky could only blink, feigning innocence. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Sam let out a laugh. "Oh, don’t play dumb. You were all over her."

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. "I plead the fifth."

“First, that’s not how it works around here… I think.” He chuckled. "Second, I saw where your hand was.”

Bucky nearly choked on his water. "That was—okay, it was barely a touch. I was just—”

"Flirting," Sam finished for him. 

Bucky refused to look at him, struggling to push down the heat creeping up your neck. Sam grinned. "You do remember she’s the owner’s daughter, right? You know, the guy who signs our checks?"

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, fingers nervously tapping on his drink. "I know.”

Sam raised a brow before nudging him. "Relax, man. I’m just messing with you,” he said. “Kinda nice having another American around. Just don’t want you to get fired before we can plan Thanksgiving, alright?”

“I’m not getting fired,” Bucky insisted, shaking his head. "Because nothing’s happening."

Sam lifted his hands in surrender. "Sure.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. "You don’t believe me."

"Not even a little bit."

Bucky sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam grinned, patting him on the back. "See you tomorrow, loverboy."

Bucky groaned. He was never going to hear the end of this.

September 17th — Training Center, post-match analysis, the day after Champions league Match Day 1

Even after coming out of a decisive 3-0 victory in the biggest stage of Bucky’s life so far, he showed up early again, already watching footage when you arrived. He wasn’t just there to train— he wanted to learn.

"You ever take a break Barnes?" you teased, setting your tablet down.

"Not when I could be getting better," he replied, eyes glued to the screen. "Look at this—my positioning here is a step too wide, right?"

You blinked. "Uh… yes."

"See?” He grinned. “I’m learning."

You were impressed. He wasn’t just playing on instinct anymore. He was analysing, adapting. But of course, that didn’t mean he stopped being… him. He was confident and annoyingly smug in the most adorable way, and over the last couple of weeks, he'd become more… flirty. Not that you were complaining.

"You like working with me, don’t you?" he said later on in that session, leaning closely as you swiped through stats on your screen.

You ignored the way your heart beat faster. "I like coaching players who listen."

December 27th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis the day after Premier league Match Day 18

Another day, another deep dive into his game. 

Bucky had been here for almost half a season now, and he was settling in the squad well. Even Zemo, who rarely had a nice word for anyone, was warming up to him.

He had fourteen goals in fifteen matches, so yeah, he was making a mark on the league, especially for a late bloomer. Sure, there had been a few tough losses, an early cup exit, but overall, he was proving to be a hell of a signing. Even Alexei had begrudgingly admitted Bucky was becoming a key asset to the club.

Yesterday’s game had been tough, though. 

Pietro went down and got injured in the first half, forcing Bucky to shift into the central attacking midfielder role while the untested Brazilian striker, Roberto Da Costa, took the lead up front. It wasn’t Bucky’s usual position, but he made it work. Mostly. 

A 2-2 draw wasn’t the worst outcome, but today’s one-to-one session was all about analysing his game in his new role.

"You hesitated here," you pointed at the screen, freezing the frame right before his decision. "If you release the pass earlier, you create a better chance for Da Costa."

Bucky hummed, arms crossing. "Or… I fake the pass, fish the defender out, and cross it for the kid to finish."

Your brows lifted, admittedly impressed. "That… would work too."

His smile was charming, and almost annoying. "C’mon, give me some credit. I’ve got a brain and good looks."

You huffed and chuckled. "Debatable."

He turned to face you, leaning in just a little. "You sure about that?" he teased. "Because if I didn’t know better, I’d say you spend a lot of time watching me."

You scoffed, arms folding over your chest. "It’s my job."

“Mmm.” He tilted his head, studying you. “Do you only watch the numbers?”

You swallowed hard. Bucky leaned in. “Or do you watch me?”

February 16th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis the day after Premier league Match Day 25

The day after a brutal, hard-fought 4-3 win against Aston Villa, you barely had time to set your tablet down before Bucky walked into your office with two coffee cups in hand.

"You looked like you needed this," Bucky said, plopping down into the chair next to you, "Thought you were gonna pass out mid-strategy meeting."

You arched an eyebrow but accepted the coffee anyway. "So you were watching me instead of paying attention to Erskine?"

Bucky only shrugged.

You set the cup aside before clicking on the monitor. "Alright, let’s start."

He groaned. "Already? No small talk? No ‘thanks for the coffee, Bucky, you’re the best’?"

"You got a red card in the 81st minute," you pointed out, deadpanned. 

Bucky snorted, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. "That was bullshit, and you know it. The guy dived!"

"Uh-huh," you clicked your pen, pulling up his stats. "Still, a second yellow for dissent? Really?”

"He flopped like a fish and got rewarded for it," he grumbled. "What was I supposed to do, clap for him?"

"Yes. Or, hear me out—shut up and walk away."

Bucky huffed, but you could tell he knew you were right. He knew he made a mistake— a mistake that would lead him to missing the next match. "How bad do my numbers look?"

You pulled up his passing charts. "Not bad at all, actually,” you hummed, “89% completion, seven progressive passes, four key passes. No goals or assists, but you helped control possession."

His lips curled into a small smile. "Sounds like a solid game."

"Until the red card."

He groaned again, rubbing his fingers on his forehead. "You're never letting this go, are you?"

"Absolutely not,” you shook your head. “I thought you knew better than to swear at the ref."

"That was barely swearing."

"You called him a—" You checked your notes, suppressing a laugh. "—‘blind fucker with a god complex.’"

Bucky sighed. "Okay,” he admitted defeat. “Maybe I could’ve phrased it better."

You shook your head, scrolling through the stats. "Control your temper, Barnes."

A lazy grin formed on his face. "You just wanna give me a hard time, don't you?"

You mirrored his smile. "You make it so easy."

"You know," he said, leaning in slightly. "I love it when you scold me. Keeps me in line."

You tilted your head, eyes looking down to his mouth before you met his eyes again. "Bet you’d really thrive under a little extra discipline," You murmured, then continued, "Maybe behind closed doors, too, hm?”

Bucky froze, his pupils blown wide open. "Are you offering?"

You took another sip of your coffee, trying to look entirely unfazed. "Let’s see how the season ends first, shall we?"

Then, before he could respond, you spun your monitor back around and pulled up his heat maps. "Now, let’s talk about your positioning."

He blinked. You had never seen James Buchanan Barnes look so utterly shocked before.

He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. "Right. Positioning."

You smiled to yourself. That shut him up.

May 7th — Champions League Semi Finals, Leg 2

The first leg against Real Madrid had ended 0-0, which meant it was all to play for. 

They were European royalty. This biggest test of your season so far.

Pietro was finally back, which meant Bucky could return to his natural position up top. Bucky was relieved. You’d been forced to use him in midfield, and he’d done well, but this… this was where he thrived.

Madrid dominated possession, and your team had to defend for their lives. T’challa Udaku, usually a more aggressive right back, had to stay back the whole game to stop Vini jr. from going through. Wagner made three ridiculous saves. It was 0-0 for most of the match, and it seemed destined to stay that way.

Then, in the 89th minute, you got a corner. Brian Braddock curled it in, and Bucky, who had spent the last ten minutes fighting off Rüdiger, found the perfect pocket of space.

He had two touches: one for control and another to tap-in. 

1-0.

Bucky’s first-ever Champions League semi-final, and he had scored the winning goal against Real Madrid at their home.

Bucky sprinted to the corner flag, arms spread wide in celebration, teammates piling onto him. The entire stadium erupted. You, now stood up in the coaching area, barely registered Erskine grabbing your shoulders, shaking you with an overjoyed laugh. “You were right about him!” He exclaimed.

You let out a deep breath, shaking your head. “Of course I was.”

The final whistle blew minutes later.

Your team was in the Champions League finals.

May 8th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis

Bucky was already in your office when you arrived. Of course he was.

He was still in his hoodie and training gear, looking ridiculously smug as he watched the highlight reel from last night’s match. The moment he saw you, he leaned back in his chair, stretching out like a sleepy cat.

“You see that goal?” he drawled. “Beautiful.”

You laughed playfully, sitting down next to him. “It was a tap-in.”

“A winning tap-in,” he corrected.

You tried to ignore him, but failed, trying to hide the smile on your face. “You did well,” you admitted. Bucky didn’t respond immediately. You turned to look at him—only to find him already watching you.

“We could’ve won it earlier, though.” You pulled up the footage, pointing at the screen. “You hesitated again, just for a second. Watch.”

His eyes studied the replay, his brows furrowing. “Yeah,” he nodded, “Should’ve gone inside instead of trying to beat him wide.”

“Exactly.” You glanced at him, catching the way he was still looking at you—not at the numbers.

Your throat went dry.

“We’ll fix it,” you said quickly, turning back to the monitor.

“I like it when you say ‘we,’” he murmured, voice low, teasing.

You swallowed, ignoring the flip in your stomach

“Bucky,” you sighed. “You’re great. But you’re still losing a lot of aerial duels.”

He blinked, as if taken aback by the shift in tone.

“I talked to Erskine,” you continued. “He wants me to go over the numbers with you, show you how to improve, okay?”

Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees, suddenly more focused. “Alright. Hit me.”

You swiped to another stat sheet. “Madrid won 72% of their aerial duels last night. You won 2 out of 7. Rüdiger dominated you physically. You struggled against Tchouaméni when he dropped back to cover. If we play like this in the final, we’ll have problems.”

Bucky let out a deep breath. “Damn. I knew Rüdiger was a nightmare, but I didn’t think I was that bad.”

“You weren’t bad,” you said. “You just weren’t dominant.”

“Right.” he smiled playfully. “And you need me to be dominant?”

You shot him a stern look. “Bucky.”

“What,” he said, then winked, “I just—”

“Bucky, stop,” you said sternly.

His smirk dropped instantly. “Shit,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

You sighed, pushing your chair back. 

You usually didn’t mind his flirting. Most of the time, you flirted back. But today was different.

You put your arms over yourself in an attempt of comfort. “I’m just trying to do my job.”

Oh. 

Bucky straightened his posture. His usual playfulness faded away as he carefully put a hand on your thigh, careful to not cross a boundary. 

“We’re just… we're so close to winning the Champions League,” you said quietly. “You are so close.”

He nodded in understanding, He felt the pressure, too.

“You’re my project, okay?” you admitted. “I convinced my dad to sign you. If we win—with you at the center of it—it’ll shut up all the people who said I was a nepotist hire.” You let out a breath. “Do you get that?”

Bucky was silent. You had seen him fight. You had seen him frustrated—at a bad call, at a missed chance, at himself. But this was not that,

When he spoke, his voice was quieter. “You think you have to prove yourself to them?”

You swallowed. “I think I have to prove myself to everyone.”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “God, that's ridiculous,” he said.

Your mouth parted slightly. “Excuse me?”

“You already proved yourself.” His eyes met yours, intense and steady. “You helped build this team. You made me better. I’ve talked to the boys out there, and every single one of them will say that you’ve helped, one way or another.”

Your throat tightened to close up.

“You are the reason we’re winning,” he said simply, as if it was fact. “Not me. You.”

Oh? Was that what he really thought of you?

“Look,” he continued, gentler now. “I’ll take the aerial duels more seriously. I promise.”

You nodded slowly.

Then, Bucky smiled. This time, it wasn’t smug. It was just… kind.

“You’re just so fucking smart,” he suddenly said. It came out of nowhere. “It’s annoying.”

A laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it.

“See?” Bucky grinned. “There she is. Thought I lost you for a second.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

May 30th — Training Center, the day before the Champions League Final

It had been a brutal season—long, exhausting, filled with near-misses and last-minute heartbreaks. You’ve lost the Premier League, finishing third in the table. 

But this was still possible.

The Champions League Final. Win, and none of the late collapses would matter.

Which was why you and Bucky were still here, pouring over his stats one last time.

“You see the pattern?” you murmured, scrolling through the data.

Bucky, sitting beside you, leaned in. His knee brushed against yours, but neither of you made the effort to move away.

“Yeah,” he exhaled. “Last twenty minutes, my pressing drops. Feels like I’m dragging.”

You nodded, tapping the screen. “Your pressing numbers in the first half are great, but by the end, you’re winning fewer duels, completing fewer sprints. It’s not fatigue— I’ve talked to Sam about that. So it must be decision-making. You’re reacting instead of anticipating.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “So basically, I gotta stop being an idiot in the 70th minute.”

You shrugged. “That’s one way to put it.”

He turned to look at you then, and you suddenly realised how close he was to you.

You could feel the warmth of his breath, see the way his eyes reflected back at you. “Thanks,” he finally said. “For everything.”

Your throat went dry.

You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion, the pressure, or the fact that you had spent months dancing around each other, around whatever this was.

Now, he was watching you like he was waiting.

And—god help you—you weren’t sure you’d stop him if he tried.

He leaned in. Just slightly. Just enough.

Is this really happening?

And then the door swung open.

“Erskine sent me.”

You jolted back so fast you nearly knocked your laptop off the table.

Miguel O’Hara stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. Your defensive midfielder was one of the best in the game, and apparently, a professional mood-killer. “Said I needed to see my tackle stats.”

Bucky took a deep breath, looking away as he pushed himself up from his chair. “Great timing, O’Hara.”

Miguel chuckled. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath as he grabbed his bag and made his way to the door. As he passed Miguel, the midfielder smacked him on the back—just a little too hard, but still harmless.

“Don’t stay up too late, Barnes,” he said, tone just on the edge of teasing. “Big game tomorrow.”

Bucky shot him a glare but said nothing, shoving the door open and disappearing down the hall.

Miguel chuckled before turning back to you, sliding into the seat Bucky had just left.

“So,” he said. “Barnes, huh?”

“Nope,” you said immediately, shaking your head. “Not a word.”

Miguel held up his hands in surrender. “Lips are sealed.”

You exhaled, rubbing your temples. You didn’t even know what had almost happened—if anything had almost happened. But now wasn’t the time to think about it.

All that mattered was winning tomorrow.

May 31st — Champions League Final

You stood with the coaching staff on the sidelines, heart pounding as the match against Bayern Munich stretched into extra time. Twice, you had taken the lead. Twice, Bayern had clawed their way back— first through Jamal Musiala’s quick footwork in the box, then an absolute worldie from Harry Kane.

Now, with the score stuck at 2-2, you could tell exhaustion was setting in. Bucky was still moving, still searching for the moment. As Erskine took people off to substitute, he kept Bucky there as the glue keeping the team together.

Then, it happened.

Joaquin spotted the space before anyone else did, curling a perfect cross into the box. Bucky timed his run to perfection, drifting between the center-backs. No hesitation. He jumped above the defense, and met the ball with a wonderful header.

The net rippled.

3-2.

He kept his promise. He scored a header. And this time, Bayern didn’t equalize.

The final whistle blew.

For a second, the stadium held its breath. And then, the chaos came.

The bench erupted. The players collapsed, some to their knees, others running in every direction. 

The team had done it. Champions of Europe.

But before you could even process it, Bucky was sprinting toward you, eyes wide with adrenaline. Before you could properly greet him, his arms were around you, lifting you clean off the ground, spinning you around in a dizzying circle. You gasped, holding onto him for dear life

Then, as he set you down, he pressed his forehead to yours.

His breath was short and quick, his hands still gripping your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go. His lips parted slightly, his eyes watching your mouth, then back up again. 

Fuck.

He wanted to kiss you. For a split second, you almost thought he would.

But then you looked up to the hospitality box.

Your father was watching.

Bucky must have realised it at the same time, because instead of closing the last inch between you, he just…hugged you. So tightly, so desperately, like if he held on long enough, he could say everything he wanted to without speaking at all.

“You did it,” you whispered, voice barely carrying over the chaos around you.

“No,” he said. “We did it. We all did.”

—

After the award ceremony, you ran. Instead of celebrating with the team, you sat alone in an empty conference room at Wembley, staring at your laptop screen and the match statistics in hand. You weren’t really working—you were just… distracting yourself from the noise.

From him.

The way he’d looked at you, the way he’d held you— it had been building for months.

But your father owned the club, for fuck’s sake.You were better than this.

The door creaked open, and you already knew who it was.

“You do realise we just won the Champions League, right?” Bucky asked.

You didn’t look up immediately, keeping your eyes on the screen. “That what all the screaming about?” Sarcastic, dry— your first response to being slightly uncomfortable. It worked sometimes.

Bucky let out a laugh, stepping further inside. “Hilarious.”

Finally, you looked up.

He was leaning against the doorway, medal still around his neck, shirt untucked. His hair was still damp from the match, strands falling into his face, and his palms were raw from falling down on the grass more times than he could care to count. (which was 32, by the way. You counted).

He looked ridiculously infuriating.

And so fucking good.

“Why are you here?” you asked, tilting your head. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

Bucky shrugged, stepping closer. “Was looking for you.”

You forced yourself to scoff. “And here I thought you had priorities.”

“I do.” He smirked. “Turns out you’re one of them.”

You rolled your eyes. “Save the charm for someone who’s impressed by it.”

“That would still be you,” he said.

You turned back to your laptop, pretending to ignore him, even as your heart started beating out of your chest. “Well, you’re wrong.”

Bucky pulled out the chair next to you and sat on it like he had all the time in the world. His thigh brushed yours, and you hated that you noticed.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Staying.”

“You should be celebrating,” you scolded.

“I will. When you do.”

You shot him a look. “Bucky—”

“I’m serious.” He nudged your arm. “You worked just as hard as we did. You should be out there, too.”

You took a deep breath, rubbing your temple. “I just needed a second to think.”

He chuckled. “You? Thinking too much? Shocking.”

You glared at him. “Don’t you have a party to be at?”

“Like I said—I was looking for you.”

Fuck, was he always this insistent? “Why?”

Bucky tilted his head, watching you for a second before saying, too casually, “Because you ran off before I could kiss you.”

Your breath hitched instantly.

“I didn’t.” You forced a shrug, denying the heat curling in your stomach. “And you weren’t going to kiss me.”

“You did,” he accused, “And I was.” He leaned in, voice dropping lower. “And you wanted me to.”

Your heart pounded. “My dad was right there.”

Bucky just smirked. “Yeah. And you still looked at me like you wanted me, too.”

You swallowed hard.

This was stupid.

You should shut this down.

Tell him to leave.

Remind him—remind yourself—why it would be very difficult to make this work,

But then, his voice dropped even lower. “You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?” He whispered huskily, his Brooklyn accent slipping out of his words. “You walk around actin’ like you don’t feel this— like you don’t see the way I look at you every damn time I’m on that pitch.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going.

“You drive me insane, you know that? Pretending you don’t want me when I know you do.”

You should shut this down.

Instead… you kissed him first.

Or maybe he kissed you first. You didn’t know, didn’t care. 

Bucky’s hands were on you immediately—one tilting your chin, the other holding your waist, pulling you out of your chair and into his lap like he needed to. His lips teasing, taking, testing.

And you let him.

Your hands fisted his shirt, dragging him closer as he groaned against your mouth. His tongue brushed yours, and everything felt like a perfect contradiction—messy and controlled, rough and soft, teasing and hungry.

He kissed like he played—all in. Desperate, determined, and so fucking good at it.

His hand slid lower, fingers grazing the hem of your shirt, and your breath hitched.

You wanted more. You needed more. 

Then, you heard footsteps echoing down the hall.

You shoved him away just as the door swung open.

Erskine stepped inside, eyebrows raised. “There you are. Press is looking for you, Barnes. And—” His eyes darted between the, suspicion creeping in. “Everything okay?”

It’s not like he could prove anything. You cleared your throat, smoothing out your shirt. “Yeah.”

Bucky swiped his thumb over the corner of his mouth, erasing the last of your lipstick from his lips before Erskine could see it. “Just going over some stats.”

The manager didn’t question it. “Well, hurry up.”

As soon as the door shut, Bucky turned back to you, “You almost got us caught, sweetheart.”

You scoffed. “You kissed me.”

His brow lifted. “You kissed me.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he just leaned in again, “and we’re gonna do it again.”

—

You ended up celebrating that night,

There was no way around it— not when the entire team was already half-drunk, singing Freed From Desire in the locker room, parading the trophy around the stadium like it was the Holy Grail. 

You kept your distance to bucky when your father was around, of course, but he made it hard. He kept looking at you from across the room, eyes half-lidded and smug, knowing that he got you wrapped around his fingers. Every once in a while, he’d find an excuse to brush an arm against you when no one was watching. 

You almost didn’t realise when the celebrations moved from the stadium to the hotel, but at some point, you were all piling up at the bar. And bless the bartenders, having to deal with 20 sweaty footballers asking for pints all night— you even heard your father say something about having to leave a massive tip and chuckled.

Then, Bucky leaned in close. “You’re thinking too much again.”

You shivered. “You’re being reckless.”

He grinned. “What’s the fun in being careful?”

You shot him a glare, but he only chuckled, his fingers hovering over your hip as he moved past you, making a show of not touching you in full view of your father.

Fucking menace.

You managed to keep up the charade for a few more hours, dodging questions from Sam and Miguel. You played it cool. Kept your distance.

Until you somehow ended up in Bucky’s hotel room.

In his bed.

You weren’t even sure how it happened—one moment, you were slipping out of the party early, and the next, Bucky was opening his door like he’d been waiting for you all night.

And maybe he had.

You barely had time to breathe before his hands were on you, pulling you in, crashing his lips against yours like he needed you to survive.

And fuck, maybe you needed him, too.

The kiss was desperate. It was filthy.

Bucky moaned into your mouth, walking you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. "You drive me fucking crazy," he muttered against your lips. "Do you know that?"

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him down with you.

June 1st — The Morning After

Bucky woke to the gentle click-click of a keyboard.

What? 

He blinked groggily, muscles pleasantly sore, body still recovering from the match… and from last night.

And then he saw you.

Sitting at the desk across the room, back to him, hair a mess, bare skin glowing in the morning sun. Still naked.

He grinned sleepily, making puppy dog eyes at you. “You’re beautiful.”

You didn’t turn around, only humming in acknowledgment, eyes locked on your laptop screen. “Mm. Morning, Barnes.”

Bucky stretched, watching you lazily. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at match data,” you said simply, like it was obvious. “Your heat map was insane last night.”

Bucky groaned, flopping back against the pillows. “Doll, please.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder. “What?”

“I love stats as much as the next guy, but I just woke up, and you’re sitting there—” he waved a hand at you, exasperated, “—naked, talking about heat maps? C’mon.”

You only laughed. “You did cover a lot of ground last night.”

His eyes turned a wicked shade of blue. “I covered a lot of ground?” He pushed himself up, the sheets slipping down his torso, exposing his bare chest. “Pretty sure you were the one putting in the work, sweetheart.”

You shook your head and put a hand out, “Come here, Barnes.”

Bucky grinned, slipping out of bed, not bothering to put anything on. His hands found your shoulders, fingers skimming along your skin as he pressed lazy kisses to the back of your neck as you showed him the data,

“Doll,” he said, mouth brushing your ear, “as much as I’d love to hear about my passing accuracy, I’d rather have you back in bed.”

His hands slid lower, tracing down your arms, featherlight, teasing.

You inhaled sharply. “Bucky—”

“C’mon,” he whispered, lips dragging down the slope of your shoulder. “Forget about it for a second.”

Your fingers rattled over the keys. “This is important—”

“This,” he murmured, lips grazing your skin, “is more important.”

His hands slipped lower, wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“Bucky,” you warned.

He looked like pure sin. “Yeah?”

You attempted to stay focused. “I really should—”

“Doll,” he said, tone rougher this time, fingers tracing circles on your bare thighs, “you wanna talk numbers? Fine. How about this— I can make you come in under five minutes.”

Your breath hitched.

Bucky grinned, nudging your ear with his nose. “Or, if you’re really competitive, we can see if you can last longer than that.”

Dammit.

Your laptop snapped shut.

And Bucky laughed as he scooped you up and carried you back to bed.

—

By the time you dragged yourself out of bed (far later than usual, thanks to a certain footballer who had been very, very persuasive about abandoning your laptop), you were immediately thrown into a whirlwind of interviews, team meetings, and endless obligations. The club's media team had scheduled back-to-back press conferences, interviews, and photo ops with the trophy.

Bucky, of course, handled it all like he handled everything— calmly, and a little smug. He was great at it.

A team meeting was scheduled first thing, mostly for logistics— transport back home, media obligations, the parade plans. You were there, half-listening as the club staff went over the schedule, but your mind was on him.

Bucky sat across the table, fresh from a shower, damp hair pushed back, a loose hoodie hanging off his frame. Every now and then, you’d catch him glancing at you.

After the meeting, the press conferences began. Thankfully, you didn't have to be involved in too much of this.

Erskine went first, answering questions about tactics, substitutions, and the significance of the win. Then it was Bucky and a few of the key players’ turn, sitting at the podium under the blinding lights as they answered the usual questions.

But it was different now. Winning meant Bucky was no longer bombarded with questions about being a late bloomer. Now, he wasn’t just a player trying to prove himself in a new league— he was a champion.

"What was going through your mind before you scored the winner?"

Bucky leaned into the mic. “Nothing, really. Just… get in the right position. Get my head on it. Score."

"And after?"

For a split second, he hesitated. 

"After?" He echoed, his eyes darting toward you, who was standing at the back of the room with the other staff. "Just wanted to find someone."

No one else knew what he meant. But you did.

You stayed busy throughout the day, making sure all the data from the match was logged, answering a few questions yourself from journalists who were more interested in your role as a statistical analyst than your father.

That afternoon, the victory parade wound its way through the city, an open-top bus carrying the team through the streets, fans lining the roads, chanting, cheering, throwing scarves and beer into the air.

You stood near the back of the bus with some of the coaching staff, watching as Bucky lifted the trophy for the crowd in one hand, microphone in the other as Braddock led the chants. 

By the time the parade ended, the players were drained, half-drunk, still running on fumes.

The team had plans to go out, to party until the sun came up again. But you and Bucky didn’t.

Instead, you both found yourselves in his apartment, sitting on the floor with some very expensive takeout between you.

Neither of you had planned it this way. It just… happened.

Bucky had disappeared into his bedroom for a moment, emerging in sweats and a hoodie, looking far too comfortable, far too at home for the conversation you were about to have.

You let out a deep breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding. “I should go.”

Bucky, sat back down, cross-legged on the carpet across from you. He frowned. “Why?”

“Because.” You gestured vaguely at the air, at the invisible everything wrong about this. “Because it’s late. Because I shouldn’t be here.”

He pushed off the counter, stepping closer. “You were in my hotel room last night.”

“That was different.”

“Was it?”

You forced yourself to look away. “Bucky—”

“Can we at least talk about us?” he finally said, his voice quieter this time, a little more unsure.

Your chest tightened. “I—”

“No, I get it,” he cut in before you could dig yourself into a hole too deep to climb out of. “Your dad owns the club. You work for the team. This is messy—” He shook his head, exhaling sharply. “But I can’t pretend this never happened.”

You couldn’t find the words.

His jaw ticked. “Can you?”

You should say yes. You should be logical, responsible. You should remind him—and yourself—why this was a bad idea.

But all you could think about was last night. The way he had looked at you after the final whistle. The way he had kissed you, like he didn’t care about contracts or your father’s approval.

“...No.”

Bucky sighed, tilting his head back against the couch. Then, after a beat, he opened his arms. “C’mere.”

That was all it took.

You hesitated for maybe half a second before climbing onto his lap, your knees on either side of his torso, hands resting against his chest. Bucky wrapped his arms around you like he was afraid you’d change your mind before pressing his forehead to yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. 

Then, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should say it, he did. “I think I might be falling in love with you.”

Your heart did an embarrassing little flip.

And before you could stop yourself—before logic, before fear, before professionalism could talk you out of it—you whispered, “Me too.”

His arms tightened around you, his lips brushing against your temple, his voice a little rough when he murmured, “Good. That’s… really good.”

But you couldn't ignore reality pulling you back up to the surface, You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself. “But we cannot let this interfere with work,” you said, fingers fisting the fabric of his hoodie. “My job is everything to me. It’s my life.”

Bucky leaned back slightly, tilting his head at you, amused. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His lips twitched. “Just that I’ve never met someone so—what’s the word? Dedicated? No, obsessed. Yeah, that’s it. You are obsessed with your job.”

You scowled, shoving his shoulder. “I am not obsessed.”

“Oh, really?” He raised a brow. “So it wasn’t you I saw pacing outside the locker room last week saying ‘expected goals ratio is a lie, I have to recalculate the whole formula’ under your breath?”

You groaned. “It was wrong, Bucky! The data wasn’t aligning with the actual game performance!”

He grinned. “Uh-huh.”

You crossed your arms. “Excuse me for caring about my work.”

“I love that you care.” His hands smoothed over your waist, drawing small circles against your hip bone, “And this won’t interfere with anything.” he promised.

You gave him a look. “You say that now, but what happens when I have to take a call about your contract? What happens when you have a bad run and I have to be the one to tell Erskine you’re underperforming?”

Bucky’s smile didn't falter as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ears. “Then you tell them.”

Your stomach twisted into a knot. “Bucky—”

“I never want you to sugarcoat my performance,” he said firmly. “Not for me. Not for anyone. If I’m not good enough, I want to know.”

Your fingers toyed absently with the hem of his hoodie, your chest tightening. He made it sound so easy.

“I don’t want to be the reason your career suffers,” you admitted.

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I was just about to say the same thing.” he said, “But I don’t want to lose you over a technicality.”

You bit your lip, exhaling. “It's… not a technicality. It's my— our careers.”

“And we’ll figure it out,” he said simply.

He was so sure. So certain. He might’ve just convinced you.

“We… we also need to keep this a secret,” you added after a beat. “Okay?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You think the media will tear into us?”

“You kidding?” You huffed. “The public won’t care. We're probably the least exciting couple in football.” It was clear he hadn't been paying attention to the people his teammates were dating— models, actresses, singers. People whose lives were much more public than yours. “But if my dad finds out, he will have your head.”

Bucky grinned, tipping his head to the side. “Hm. That’s fair.”

“At least… for now.”

His smile softened, hands sliding down to your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he didn’t want to let go. He nodded. “For now.”

Then, with a teasing smirk, he added, “Guess that means I get to have you all to myself for a little longer, huh?”

Mid-June — Off-Season

The break between the seasons was a welcome relief. You both had a month-ish of downtime before the pre-season training would start again, which meant you had time to work, unwind, and—try as you might—keep things from getting even more complicated. 

One morning, you found yourself sitting at Bucky’s kitchen table, your laptop open in front of you. You were scouting potential transfers for the club—yet another thing you’d been buried in since the season ended. Bucky had insisted that he’d handle the coffee run, but now he was back with an American and a Cappuccino, lazily balancing a football from one leg to the other in the yard while you worked.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he walked past the window, kicking the ball up and catching it with ease. He was wearing a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, and honestly, you could hardly focus on your scouting with him out there. 

Ugh. How dare your boyfriend be this hot?

“Hey, Bucky!” you called out, trying to regain some focus. “Can you come in for a minute?”

He glanced up from his ball-throwing session and grinned, giving a mock salute before striding inside. “What’s up?”

“Can you give me your opinion on this winger?” You pointed to the stats on your screen, showing a promising young player with an impressive 89% overall performance. 

Bucky asked, “How old is this guy?”

“Nineteen.”

Bucky squinted at the stats, then at his photo, his eyes narrowing as if trying to assess him. 

“Nineteen?” He flopped onto the couch next to you, his feet up on the coffee table as he leaned over to get a better look at the screen. “Left winger, huh?”

“Yeah, I know. This could be a major long-term signing for the team,” you said, scrolling through his performance history.

Bucky scoffed. “Skip.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Skip him,” he repeated, dismissing the player with a flick of his hand. “Nineteen and that good? He's gonna have an ego bigger than the Ikea in Wembley. That never ends well.”

You laughed. “Bucky, this isn’t Football Manager. You can’t just skip players because you think they’re going to have an ego.”

He grinned, giving you a playful scowl. “You know I’m right.”

You would never admit it, but you just put the kid’s profile aside and labelled it sign to loan. 

—

As the week passed, you found yourself spending more nights at Bucky’s place. It was cosy— comfortably messy, with football memorabilia covering the walls, a couch that swallowed you whole, and a kitchen that always smelled like something baking or a hearty pot of soup simmering. Sometimes, he stayed at your apartment, but you preferred it here. Yours felt more like a workspace with personal touches sprinkled here and there. It wasn’t intentional, it was just that most of your personal things were still at your father’s house— childhood home.

One evening, you sat Bucky down in the living room, he glanced up from his phone.

He put his phone down, tilting his head in curiosity. He could tell you had something to say. “What’s up?”

“We need to talk about ground rules. For when we go back to work.” You took a deep breath, willing yourself to be serious for once. 

Bucky’s lips curved in amusement as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Ground rules? You mean like… no affection in public?”

You crossed your arms and nodded, fighting back a smile. “No sneaking around at work. No kisses in the hallway. No dragging me into empty offices for secret make-out sessions.”

“Aw, come on.” Bucky leaned back, draping an arm over the couch with a dramatic sigh. “What’s the fun in that?”

You raised a finger, trying not to cave to his puppy dog eyes. “And no making up dumb excuses just to see me.”

He scoffed, crossing his arms like a petulant child. “What if I actually need to talk to you?”

“Then you schedule a meeting in the calendar, like everyone else,” you said, matching his defiance, but the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.

Bucky groaned, flopping against the cushions in fake defeat.

Then, almost sheepishly, you added, “Okay… maybe one office make-out session a week. But we have to be smart about it.”

His eyes lit up instantly. “Deal.” Before you could second-guess yourself, he pulled you into him, triumphant.

The rules were set, no matter how ridiculous they felt. And yet, as you nestled closer, you couldn’t help but think that maybe… just maybe, this secret was worth keeping.

After all, who could resist Bucky Barnes? Even if he was a little too cocky for his own good.

July 16th — Pre-season Training 

After a long break, the players were eager to get back into the groove, and the club was ready to push for even bigger achievements in the upcoming season. You were buried in your stats and scouting reports, more focused than ever. 

The first day back was as intense as you expected. The training ground was buzzing with activity, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart race as you entered the facility. You’d been through this routine countless times before—analysing stats, monitoring players, making sure their numbers were as perfect as possible. But this time, there was one thing you couldn’t calculate: how your relationship with Bucky would affect everything.

You stepped into the manager’s office, where Abraham Erskine was discussing strategy with Alexei. 

"Good morning," Erskine greeted you, offering a nod. "Have you had a chance to go over the data from last season?”

You nodded, adjusting your glasses. "I have it all here. Still need time to get through everything, but I’ll get it sorted out."

Erskine grinned, always trusting your analysis. "Perfect."

Alexei gave you a nod. "And if you need anything, you know where I am."

As you stepped out of the office, you saw Bucky on the pitch, running fitness drills with Sam and his team. You couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly he dribbled the ball, his movements fluid and precise. Dare you say, a striker at his prime.

He caught your eye from across the field, and for a moment, everything else faded away. You quickly turned your attention back to your clipboard and the stats on your screen, reminding yourself that you couldn’t afford distractions.

—

The players were already out on the field, getting ready for a five-a-side training match. Alexei was yelling on behalf of Erskine from the sidelines, making sure everyone was pushing themselves to the limit. 

You joined the rest of the coaching staff, standing near the sidelines with Erskine, Alexei, and Sam, watching the players as they ran across the field trying to defend and score in a small-scale match..

"Bucky's looking good," Sam commented, watching as he received a pass, flicking it effortlessly past one of the defenders. 

"He's been working  on his stamina during the break,” you said, the words slipping out before you could think.

Thankfully, no one seemed to question how you knew, except for maybe Sam, who only raised an eyebrow.

"That’s good. He’ll need it for the new season," Erskine added. "We’re pushing the tempo this year, more focus on fast breaks."

"Speaking of fast breaks," Alexei said, "Did you see that new guy, Piotr? He’s got decent pace.”

You nodded, jotting down notes. Piotr Rasputin, the new left-back, had already made an impression during his first few sessions. His speed, strength, and ability to cover ground quickly were going to make him a key player in transitions.

"We’ll need to see how he works with T'Challa,” you said, “probably gonna be a tough adjusting period, especially with our new signings in the center."

"Right," Alexei said, glancing toward the center of the pitch. "Marko and O’Hara will need to get their communication sorted out. They’re both physical players, but Marko can be a bit… rough around the edges."

You nodded. Cain Marko, the new central defensive midfielder, had a reputation for his strength, but his discipline was something to keep an eye on. 

The match continued, and Da Costa struggled against Zemo. Thankfully, Torres was feeding him precise passes, setting him up for shots on goal.

You were going to have a good season. 

July 25th — First Pre-season Game

Another match. Another win. Another goal from Bucky.

This time, it was a home game to test out your tactics against Italian Champions Inter Milan. 

It was a textbook performance from Bucky: 89% passing accuracy, five successful take-ons, one assist, and, of course, a goal.

The moment his shot hit the back of the net, Bucky turned straight to where you stood on the sidelines, barely masking the grin pulling at his lips. 

This was for you.

July 25th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis

You sat on the edge of your desk, laptop open, trying to keep your focus. Bucky, on the other hand? Leaning against the chair, still in his sweaty training clothes, looking way too satisfied with himself.

"Your movement in the final third was better this time," you said, scrolling through the match data.

"Mhm," Bucky hummed, distracted. His fingers traced along your thigh.

Are you even listening?"

"Of course, doll." He smiled. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he was the picture of innocence. "Final third movement. You liked it."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away when his hand slid higher. Focus. Stay professional.

"Anyway," you continued, keeping your voice even, "your xG in the first half was—"

He kissed you before you could finish.

Gently, teasing, just enough to make you lose your train of thought. You sighed against his lips, fingers gripping the edge of the desk, but you didn’t stop.

"Your xG was 1.2," you managed between kisses.

"Mhm," he mumbled, mouth trailing along your jaw. "And what about my pressing stats?"

You tried to focus, but Bucky’s hands were slipping under your shirt.

"89%," you exhaled, tilting your head as his lips brushed against your neck.

"That good?" he murmured, grinning against your skin.

"Yeah," you breathed, biting back a gasp as his hands tightened around your waist. "Best in the squad."

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, pleased. "That right?"

You nodded. He had a good game and he knew it.

"Guess we should celebrate, then."

—

It’s safe to say that you and Bucky extended your stay in your office.

By the time you had finished cleaning your office up after the mess you made, the training ground was almost empty.

Now, it was just you and Bucky, sitting on the edge of the training pitch, boots scuffing against the grass.

Your phone buzzed with a traffic report. You glanced at it and groaned. "Ugh. I’m gonna be stuck in traffic for hours before I get home."

Bucky stretched, and offered. "Come to mine."

You shook your head. "Yeah, and get stuck in the same traffic? No thanks."

You turned the screen toward him, showing the live updates— Multiple road closures. An accident on the main route out of the city. Absolute chaos.

He sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "Great."

A second passed as stared at the screen, then at Bucky, then back at the screen.

You had an idea.

"Wait—come with me."

Bucky frowned as you stood abruptly. "What?"

"Just trust me."

—

Ten minutes later, you were pulling into a long, tree-lined driveway, the city chaos left behind. The road closures were the other way. Thankfully, you had keys to a place nearby. 

Bucky sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, watching as the gated house came into view.

His brows raised. "What’s this?"

You put the car in park. "My dad’s house. The house I grew up in."

Bucky blinked. "Your dad—"

"He’s not home," you clarified quickly, unbuckling your seatbelt. "He's on an overseas trip to meet with sponsors. Won’t be back for a week, I think."

Bucky turned to you, a mischief on his lips. "Oh?"

You swallowed. "Don’t get any ideas, Barnes."

—

The door clicked shut behind you. 

It was quieter than you remembered, and it felt like time had paused the moment you left, freezing everything in place, waiting for you to come back.

And yet, the air still smelled the same. Your father’s favorite room freshener clung to the walls like a memory that refused to fade. You could even still smell the polish on the hardwood floors—it was all still here, untouched. Preserved.

Bucky followed close behind, his usual confidence tempered by the fear of stepping out of line. He looked around, taking it all in. 

And then he saw them.

The trophies.

Lined up on the shelves outside of your father’s study, glimmering under the light. They stood untouched, as if time waited for you to claim them again. 

Small ones at first—junior leagues, local tournaments, academy honours. Then bigger. Regional championships, national competitions. Medals draped over plaques, certificates framed neatly.

His eyes landed on a newspaper clipping, framed like the rest. 

SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD WONDERKID: THE DEFENSIVE FUTURE OF WOMEN’S FOOTBALL

And beneath it was a photo of a younger you. 

His throat tightened. Then he saw it—the trophy that confirmed it. Under-20 Women’s World Cup Champion. 

You hadn’t just been good. You had been the best of your generation

"You wanted to play, too?" Bucky’s voice was almost careful.

You hesitated. Not because you were hiding it, but because it wasn’t something you really talked about anymore.

"Yeah," you admitted. "Center back." A ghost of a smile formed at your lips. "I was pretty good, too."

Bucky stepped closer, scanning the awards, the photographs tucked beside them—team shots, you at the center, laughing with your teammates. And then there was one—caught mid-game, celebrating a goal with a knee slide and unfiltered joy. 

His voice went lower. "What… happened?"

Your fingers trailed along the edge of one of the shelves. "Hamstring injury. It never healed right. Tried to push through, but I wasn’t the same."

Bucky could only nod. He knew injuries, knew what they did to athletes, to their futures.

"How old were you?"

"Seventeen."

His heart ached. Seventeen. Just a kid.

You shrugged, forcing indifference into your smile, as if who you were then didn’t for who you are now. "I knew I’d never go pro after that, so I chose to fall in love with this part of the game."

Bucky was silent for a moment, before finally saying. "I didn’t know that."

You met his eyes and gave him a sad smile. "Lots you still don’t know about me, Barnes."

He didn’t like that like there were parts of you he hadn’t uncovered yet, pieces of your story buried so deep even you pretended they didn’t matter anymore.

"You ever thought about it?" he asked. "What could’ve been?"

You hesitated for a second. "Sometimes," you admitted. "But not in the way you think."

Bucky tilted his head, waiting.

"I don’t regret where I am now,” you explained. “I love being the person who sees things before they happen, I really do. But…" You ran a hand through your hair. "Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve felt like. To step onto that pitch, just once. To have a chant for me, to hear my name over the speakers, to be in it, you know?”

Bucky didn’t look away. He did know. That was his life. "You miss it?" He asked, curious.

"Every now and again," you admitted. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just reached down, plucked up one of your old medals, turning it over in his fingers. His thumb brushed over the engraving of your name.

"Then let’s play."

You blinked. "What?"

"Right now," he said, that cocky little smirk you loved so much playing on his lips. "I saw the goalposts in the garden. One v. one. Unless you’re scared?"

You rolled your eyes. "Bucky—"

"What?" He tossed the medal back onto the shelf and turned to you fully. "Can’t keep up with a pro?"

“I coach you,” You reminded him, scoffing. "I am not scared.”

He stepped back toward the door, a familiar flame in his eyes. "Prove it."

And just like that, the fire inside you came back to life.

—

Not ten minutes later, you were outside. The grass was cool and damp beneath your feet, the backyard stretching wide and open behind the house as moonlights casting shadows over the makeshift goalposts your father had set up years ago.

Bucky had found an old football in the garage, rolling it under his foot, watching you with that same infuriatingly charming face. 

"First to five?" he offered, challenging you.

You nodded.

The game started off sloppy—neither of you in match form. You were coming off years of watching from the sidelines, and of course, he was going easy on you. 

Your first touch was too heavy, shots lacking precision. But after a few minutes, instinct took over. Your muscles…  remembered. 

You faked left, then flicked the ball around him with a burst of speed that surprised you.

"Shit," he muttered, turning on his heel to chase after you.

You laughed, breathless.

This was familiar. This was intoxicating. 

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about strategy, about numbers, about your father’s expectations or the injury you suffered. 

You were just playing the game you had loved since you could walk.

Bucky caught up, nudging you with his shoulder, using his strength to knock you off balance. He stole possession with an easy touch, flicking the ball past you before slotting it into the net. 

You huffed, placing your hands on your hips. "Lucky shot."

He tilted his head, watching you. "You love this,” he said.

Not a question. A fact.

You chuckled. "I do."

His blue eyes softened, like he could see straight through you and find the kid who had once dreamed of stadium lights and roaring crowds. The kid who had to let it go.

"Don’t forget that."

You didn’t know how to answer. So you  just tackled him instead.

—

It was fast. Messy. Fun.

You scored. He scored.

4-4.

You knew he let you score at least two of your goals but you didn’t call him out on it. He was your boyfriend, after all. Your boyfriend who, mind you,  who won the Golden Boot last season. 

Bucky yelped as you knocked him off balance, the two of you tumbling into the grass. He landed on his back, you half on top of him, both of you laughing too hard to care. 

The laughter faded, but you stayed close. His hand found your cheek, fingers brushing over your skin.

His voice was softer when he spoke next.

"You would’ve been great."

The words settled. You hadn’t let yourself feel like this in a long time.

“Maybe," you whispered. 

His thumb traced over your cheekbone. "No maybe about it."

And then, there was nothing else to say he kissed you.

Slowly, His lips impossibly gentle on yours.

When you pulled back, you didn’t hesitate. You scrambled up, found the ball, and booted it straight into the net.

5-4

"I WIN!"

Bucky groaned, throwing his head back into the grass. "You were distracting me!"

You stood over him, victorious. "Sounds like a skill issue, Barnes."

—

Your childhood room felt smaller than you remembered. 

Old posters still covered the walls, though their edges were curling and yellowing slightly with age— legends of the game staring down as you both sat on the bed. 

Bucky looked amused when his eyes landed on one in particular. He let out a low whistle.

“Gerard Piqué, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, already hearing the teasing you were about to endure. “Shut up.”

Bucky grinned, leaning back on his elbows. “I get it. World-class defender, Champions League winner… and what, you had a little crush on Shakira’s ex?”

You scoffed, kicking off your shoes as you dropped onto the bed. “I admired his game.”

"Uh-huh. Sure. Nothing to do with those blue eyes?" His smirk was downright wicked now. "Kinda like mine, now that I think about it. I’m seeing a pattern here."

You crossed your arms. “I liked his defensive intelligence.”

Bucky laid beside you. “And his face?”

You smacked him with a pillow. He caught it effortlessly, laughing. 

You huffed. “He was a good defender.”

Bucky laughed. 

You grabbed another pillow, but this time, Bucky beat you to it and tucked it under his head. He was still chuckling when he said, almost sheepishly, “I, uh… didn’t really have a crush when I was younger, but—”

You raised a brow. “But?”

He sighed. “I did have a lot of Thierry Henry posters.”

You blinked. “Thierry Henry?”

It caught you off-guard. Henry and Bucky were very different strikers, after all. Thierry Henry was sleek and technically refined. Bucky was more of a physically dominant, power-based striker. 

Bucky shrugged, pretending to be indifferent, but you could see the slight pink creeping up his neck. “He was cool, alright?”

You grinned. “Are you sure you didn’t have a crush on him?”

Bucky groaned, covering his face with the pillow. “He was just so smooth. That dribbling, those finishes—he made everything look effortless.”

You laughed, nudging his arm. “This is adorable.”

“Shut up.”

“You were a little Thierry Henry fanboy.”

Bucky groaned again, but there was no real frustration in it. You tugged the pillow away, still smiling.

You traced patterns on your bedsheets. “I never would've guessed."

Bucky turned his head toward you. "And I never would've guessed Piqué was your type."

You chuckled. "He's not my type."

Bucky hummed, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "No?"

You swallowed, leaning into his touch.

"You," you insisted. "You're my type."

Bucky chuckled, hand cupping against your cheek, thumb brushing your skin.

"Good," he whispered. "Because you're mine."

You both laid there for a while, talking without any pressure, just enjoying the kind of conversation that happens when the world feels small and distant.

You asked him about life in America, about the MLS. If he missed anyone.

Bucky hesitated, staring up at the ceiling. "Not really. I mean, I had my team, my life there, but… football took me everywhere. Always moving." He sighed, a little wistful. "My sister's still there, though."

"You’re close?" you asked.

"Yeah. Used to be more, but... she's— we’re both always busy now." He paused, "But you’ll meet her someday."

You smiled. "I’d like that."

Bucky looked over at you, his expression soft. "Yeah?" he asked, as if he hadn’t quite believed you'd want to.

"Yeah."

There was a quiet moment before Bucky turned his back to the ceiling, lost in thought. "I, uh… I had a best friend in MLS."

You nudged him with your elbow. "Had?"

He smiled faintly. "He's still my best friend. He called to congratulate me on the trophy, actually. Steve Rogers. We grew up together in Brooklyn, playing football since we were kids. Ended up on the same team in MLS. He was always better, though."

You raised your eyebrows. "You literally won the Champions League last season."

Bucky chuckled softly. "Yeah, well. Steve was special. One of those players who just had it." He looked at you, his voice growling smaller. "Like you."

Your heart skipped a beat at the unexpected compliment. 

Bucky kept talking, his voice almost a whisper. "A couple years ago, he got injured. It was... bad. Never really got back to the way he used to be." He sighed.

Oh. So Rogers was very much like you.

“We used to spend hours just playing in the streets, using whatever we had for goalposts"

You hummed.

"I think I miss that part of football the most,” he admitted. “Just... playing for the love of it. No expectations. No pressure."

You shifted closer, resting your head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you in. 

"I get that," you whispered.

For a long time, you didn’t speak. There was no need for words. You just laid there, wrapped up in each other.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t alone anymore.

July 26th — Your Father’s Residence

Last night had been so innocent.

Just the two of you, curled up together in your childhood bed, limbs tangled beneath the covers.

Bucky had been sweet, so sweet and surprisingly well-behaved, even going so far as to change into one of his clean training shirts before bed, despite your teasing.

And, for a few blissful hours you had peace.

When you woke up, you felt Bucky’s chest beneath your cheek, his arms loose around your waist. For a moment, you simply watched him— his sleep-mussed hair, the way his brow scrunched slightly, the way his lips parted just enough to let out a barely-there sigh.

He was so adorable like this. Nothing like the relentless striker the world saw on the pitch.

Just Bucky. Just yours.

You smiled to yourself, stretching lazily before slipping from the bed, careful not to wake him. You walked over to the other side of the room, grabbing the jug of water from your desk and taking a sip, blinking the sleep from your eyes as you turned to the window—

And froze.

Your heart jumped into your throat.

There it was. Your dad’s car. In the driveway.

OH. SHIT.

Your stomach flipped as panic jolted through your spine.

"Bucky," you hissed, spinning around. "Bucky, wake up."

He didn’t respond for a few seconds, only managing a sleepy groan, a grumble of "Mmm, five more minutes."

You stared at him in utter betrayal. A professional athlete— a man who woke up at the crack of dawn to train every single day— was suddenly a five-more-minutes kind of guy?! Unacceptable.

You shoved his shoulder. Hard. "JAMES! HE’S HOME EARLY,” you whisper-shouted.

Bucky shot up so fast he nearly fell off the bed. "Wait—who—what—"

Well, that did it.

"My dad! My dad is home early!"

For two whole seconds, Bucky just took his sweet time processing.

"Oh shit,” he blinked.

Good. His panic mode was finally activated. 

Your brain short-circuited. "Okay, okay, okay—uh—we have to sneak you out."

Bucky scrambled out of bed, moving in the most uncoordinated way you had ever seen him move. "Right. Right. Sneak out. I—I just need to get my stuff—"

"You don’t have anything!"

"Shit! Okay!" he whisper-yelled, as if that somehow made things quieter.

And then you heard footsteps from downstairs.

Your dad was awake. 

Oh god. Any second now, he’d either call up to you or worse— walk upstairs and find his club’s star striker sneaking out of his daughter’s bedroom.

You and Bucky exchanged a look.

The sheer terror shared between you was almost comical.

"Window?" Bucky whispered.

You gawked at him. "You’re a footballer, not Spider-Man. Are you insane?!"

"Back door?"

"It’s right by the kitchen! He’ll see you!"

You tiptoed to the bedroom door, cracked it open just enough to listen. You could hear the faint sizzling of something cooking.

Okay. Okay. You could work with this.

You turned back to Bucky. "We can do this. Just—just act casual."

Bucky gave you the most not-casual look ever as you both stumbled toward the hallway. "What the hell does ‘casual’ mean?"

"It means don’t act guilty!"

"Well, I am guilty!"

"Of what?! We didn’t do anything!"

"I don’t know?!" He was borderline hysterically whispering. 

Before you could argue, Bucky suddenly stiffened.

Your stomach dropped. Slowly, with dread pooling in your gut, you turned.

And there your father was.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs. Arms crossed. Watching.

Shit.

“Barnes,” he said. 

Bucky made a noise that was not human, best described as a strangled mix between a squeak and a whimper. His spine locked up so straight it was a miracle he didn’t snap in half.

Your dad looked at you. Then to Bucky. Then calmly, too calmly he asked, “You stayed over?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. All of that jaw movement and still, absolute nothing came out.

You, already in full-blown panic mode, squeaked. “He—he stayed in the guest room!” A blatant, terrible lie.

Bucky nodded so fast it looked like his head might pop off. “Guest room. Yup. Uh—I was gonna go home from the training ground, but the, um—traffic!”

That wasn’t a complete lie.

“…gridlock,” you added weakly. “I had the keys here and… I, um, offered a stay. Can’t have our star boy stuck in training overnight!” You joked weakly, trying to lighten the mood. 

Your dad’s expression remained unreadable.

“That’s very nice of you,” he finally smiled, but you couldn’t tell if it was sincere or not. 

Your knees nearly gave out.

Bucky, sensing his only possible window of escape, inched toward the door like he was sneaking past a sleeping bear. “Well, uh—thank you for the hospitality, sir. I should probably—”

“Oh, nonsense! Any player of mine should stay for breakfast!”

Bucky froze.

You froze.

Your dad, already turning toward the kitchen, utterly oblivious to the horror radiating from both of you, continued, “I’m making waffles. You’re both eating.”

Bucky turned to you, pure fear in his eyes. “Why does this feel like a trap?”

You whispered, “Because it is.”

—

The kitchen had never felt so small.

You and Bucky sat at the long wooden table like criminals waiting for questioning, hands stiff on your laps. Meanwhile, your father hummed as he mixed the batter. Your father never hummed.

You were so, so screwed.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and vanilla filled the air, very deceptively warm and comforting. You should have felt cosy, sitting in the same kitchen where you’d spent countless mornings as a child, where your father had once ruffled your hair and reminded you to eat before school.

But today, was Bucky Barnes sitting beside you, his knee just barely brushing against yours under the table.

“So, Barnes.” Your father finally spoke, pouring batter into the waffle maker. “How’s training been?”

Bucky’s voice cracked. “Good, sir! Strong. Very strongly.  Uh—good preseason. Feeling… fit. Ready. Strong.”

You kicked him under the table, daring him to say strong one more time. 

Your father nodded. “Good, good.” And then, without so much as a glance, he said, “You didn’t stay in the guest room, did you?”

Bucky’s grip tightened around the edge of the table.

“When I got home and saw my daughter’s car and the football outside, I figured I’d check if anyone else was staying the night.”

Your father paused. “You weren’t there,” he narrowed his eyes, pointing a fork at Bucky. “You slept in my daughter’s room.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Your father poked at the batter, checking if it was done.“So. Are you two dating?”

Bucky choked on air.

“Dad!” you yelped, heat flooding your face.

Your father only shrugged, his expression neutral, his movements impossibly calm. “What? It’s a simple question.”

Bucky, hands now frantically tapping the table, started rambling, We—uh—we’re just—”

Your father arched a brow, unamused. “It really shouldn’t be this hard to answer, Barnes.”

Bucky flinched like he’d just been tackled into the ground. After bracing himself, he blurted out, “Yes.”

Your father hummed again (seriously, the humming was unsettling) as he played the waffles.  “I’m not stupid, you know. It’s obvious. That, and Wilson’s been hinting about it for weeks.”

Fucking Sam.

Bucky blinked, though. He was surprisingly calm about this. 

“And you’re okay with that?” You asked sheepishly

“As long as Barnes keeps scoring goals and doesn’t break your heart?” He shrugged, “Sure.”

“So…” Bucky decided it was a good time for a joke. “I don’t have to run out the window?”

Your father chuckled, shaking his head. “I’d rather you not break your legs before the season starts.”

Oh. Okay. 

Your father slid a stack of golden waffles onto both of your plates, pouring syrup over them with far too much exaggeration.

“Eat your waffles, kid.”

And just like that, Bucky Barnes had officially survived meeting your father.

Not as his boss. But as his girlfriend’s dad.

(Barely).

-end.

Extra note : I’m considering doing a part two where Steve gets hired as part of the coaching staff but I don’t know if anyone will read this fic, let alone like it 😭😭😭 I feel like it’s just such a niche audience lol.

General Bucky Taglist :

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi

much ado about nothing drabble set 1

'one look and they'll know' collection masterlist See my full list of works here!

Placement: married era

Summary: some slice of life snapshots of Tom & Y/N's life during the rehearsals phase of the play

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Word Count: 1.1k (across 2 drabbles)

Warning/s: language (slightly) [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: chaotic wifey Reader hours

permission to smack

"Is it alright if I smack his bum?"

You closed your laptop and stared up at Hayley with a confused look on your face. "Wait, what?"

"We're discussing some sequences for the play and there's some talk of bum smacking and I just wanted to make sure you were alright with it."

"Wait…babes are you asking me if it's okay for you to do your job?" The actress let out a nervous chuckle, the absurdity of your words hitting her the same way it did you with her initial question.

"Erm…yes, yes I suppose I am. It's just--I know that you don't move as deeply in the acting world that we do, and it doesn't sit right with me if I don't run some things by you before--"

You gently placed your hands on her shoulders. "Hayley look at me. It's fine, it's all fine. I appreciate you asking for my blessing but I gotta be honest…this is uncharted territory for me. You're the first co-star to ever ask me something like this." Your mind wandered back to a few years back…how your mind went and almost completely shut off having to watch him film a love scene on grassy marshes. "No one's ever really bothered to ask if I'm okay with anything other than my husband."

It surprised you how quickly she caught on, mouthing a name and simply nodding in understanding when you gave her a single raise of your eyebrows to confirm.

"But it's a role, and that's all it is. You've been in our life for as long as there has been an 'our life', so everything's fine. Just as long as you leave it strictly at the role, then I have no reason to threaten you the way I did Grande."

She clasped her hand over yours. "You have to tell me that story one day. I've only ever heard snippets."

"One day," you promised her, squeezing her hand back. "Just know that it's okay with me. Smack away. Just…make sure that you keep your hand placement mindful because the man refuses to wear pants."

Hayley near doubled over in laughter as she held you with both hands now trying to keep standing upright.

Loud music began to fill the room and you felt a tug on your free hand, a smile stretching across your face when you locked eyes with your husband. "Dance with me before you go?"

"Always," you told him, letting him pull you into his arms and lead you in a twirly dance around the studio. It vaguely reminded you of dancing at your reception, Tom effortlessly lifting you from the ground with a single arm wrapped around you, pressing your body against his as he spun in a circle.

"What was that about?" His eyes darted over to where you stood with Hayley a moment ago.

"I told her if she's gonna be smacking your ass to keep in mind your aversion to underwear," you answered casually, your smile growing wider when he threw his head back and laughed, placing you back down on the ground before dipping you.

"A menace as always, goddess," he said softly before placing a quick kiss on your neck.

"What can I say? I get it from my darling husband."

He led you to stand upright, keeping his arm around your waist and resting his forehead on yours. "I'll see you when rehearsal's finished?"

"Count on it."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead before loosening his hold on you. "Take care of my heart."

You laid your hand on his chest, and he placed his much larger hand on yours, giving you a chance to press a soft kiss to his wedding ring. "Take care of mine."

The entire room erupted into a chorus of whoops and cheers when he pressed a soft kiss to your lips, immediately taking you both out of your little bubble and reminding you that there was somewhere you needed to be for work in under an hour. You hastily went over to sling your bag over your shoulder and gave Hayley a quick hug.

On a whim, you decided to embrace the chaos and give her a final piece of advice. "Right cheek, lower right quadrant. If you wanna maximize bounce when you're on stage. Oh, and swing upward at an angle."

saved you a seat

"Y/N, I've reserved a seat in the third row for you for every show," Jamie told you when you'd dropped your husband off for rehearsals. "Towards the center so you can really see everything."

You shook your head at him, giving the director an apologetic smile. "Thank you but really that seat will be better off being available to purchase. I have a thing with seeing my husband doing any sort of love scene in real time…? Like I can watch it on a screen no problem, but when it's happening right in front of me my brain gets a bit fucked," you explained.

"I see." He nodded, starting to understand where you were coming from. "So you haven't watched him film any romantic scenes in those projects you worked on together?"

You shook your head again. "Not since 2021. And it wasn't even a full on sex scene it was just supposed to be like simulated finger blasting and some kissing and my mind still shut down. Took him nearly three hours to get through to me. That's when I knew it probably wasn't best for me to watch it happening."

"Shame," he remarked, giving you a light pat on your arm. "He's doing incredibly and I just know you would have been proud seeing him up on that stage."

"I'm always proud of him," you told him. "And I'm sure that he's gonna be amazing. Like he always is."

"How about I give you a backstage pass instead? So you won't have to deal with security questioning you trying to get to his dressing room?"

"Now that I will gladly take." Before you left to attend to your own projects for the day, you decided to impart some advice for costuming. "Oh, and since I know there's gonna be a good amount of movement and dancing for this, I beg you don't listen to my husband when he says he wants to wear tighter clothes. He's gonna rip a seam lunging if he gets his way."

"That'll get everyone talking," he joked.

"It sure would," you said back with a laugh. "But I've gone through extensive lengths to make sure that his dick hasn't been plastered throughout the internet, and somehow that dark grainy clip from High-Rise still exists. I'll be damned if another somehow makes its way online just because his costume trousers are as tight as his jeans."

A/N: I've been having some thoughts & thots on how the OLTK blorbos would be acting in this era of Much Ado and trying to figure out how it's going to fit in a full chapter, but then I decided "fuck it" and just make lil snapshot moments instead and turn them into drabble sets.

Might have one coming soon involving some after show shenanigans in Tom's dressing room. And also a drabble set (that could still potentially turn into full chapters with smuttery) during the filming of Night Manager.

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @dryyoursaltyoceantears @herdetectivetheorist @alexakeyloveloki @lulubelle814 @jaidenhawke

you'd make me fall from heaven

Summary: What if Loki is a fallen angel and reader is still one? Heavily inspired in the ineffable husbands of course Tags: Fluff,banter, mutual pining and THE enemies to lovers Warnings: Saint Peter will ask about this when my time comes - this is pure blasphemy I am sorry Word count: 4.7 K Left GIF belongs to: @tomhiddleston-loki Right GIF belings to: @stevenrogered Read on AO3

You watched as the couple left the garden, both ashamed of what they had done.

“I won this time.” A sultry voice spoke from behind.

You turned to it in a defensive position, your holy sword in one hand and a shield on the other, making a full display of your wings and halo.

“Well, hello.” A tall man, with dark hair and mesmerizing eyes greeted you. “I don’t think we have been introduced.” His sight roamed through your tunic covered body.

“Nor shall we. I order you to leave immediately.” Your voice did not falter but one of his eyebrows rose in defiance.

“Or what?” A smirk also played on his face.

“Wait and find out.” You defied him as well.

A lustful demeanor took him over, “Oh, I’d really like that, angel.” He took a step closer and you raised your sword, “the name’s Loki.”

Before he took another step you spoke, “The smartest thing you can do is leave before an Archangel sees you and ends you.” 

He stared in silence, “Are you sparing me? Because if you are, I will be at your dearest service.” 

“Just leave, disgusting demon.” 

And with a wink he dissapeared in the air.

***

“ What have you done? ” The heavenly voice asked Cain, as you watched from afar.

Abel lay dead on the ground, his blood spilling the earth; staring at the crimson liquid you felt an obnoxious presence near you.

“That is probably the lowest you’ve gone, fallen .” You added a nickname for him.

Loki creeped behind you until he reached your side. “Is that a challenge, I hear?” 

You turned to find him smiling, actually smiling, enraging you. “I should have ended you in the garden of Eden.” You muttered. “I will kill you.” With a flick of your wrist you leaned your sword on his throat. The mere touching causing visible damage on his skin.

“Threatening to commit murder is actually a form of flattery, angel.” His eyes shone, “I will die happily if it means I got you to sin.”

Your sword came back to your hip in an instant as a gasp left your mouth. With tears in your eyes you stared at him; his blue eyes staring back at you nonchalantly, curly black hair falling on his shoulders and a devilish grin on.

You turned away from him muttering “just get away from me, please.”

***

You could not believe your eyes as you stared into Gomorrah, bodies clinged to each other, doing things you had never seen before. You were sent to stop it, to warn them of the fury of the Lord, but something in your belly did not allow you to stop staring.

“‘tis a dangerous place for a woman to set foot in.” 

You finally looked away and turned to find Loki leaning against a wall. His hair was in a ponytail, small curls bouncing free behind his ears.

“I am not a woman.” You muttered.

He gasped “You’re not?! Then what’s under that?” He signaled at your tunic.

“I am an angel of the lord and as such I am not categorized into the social ideologies of the bodies.” You calmly explained before turning back to the people sinning in front of you.

“Does he agree with that? Your boss?” He bumped you with his shoulder, throwing you off tracks. Exasperated, you turned back to him.

“First of all, he created me so I don’t think he does not agree with whatever form I use. And second, he is not my boss, he is my Father.” You took a step back, “Do not bump me, demon.”

“Oh, angel, he really is not your father.” He nodded towards the people, “he is their father.”

You swallowed as you stared, again. A fuzzy, new feeling coiled in your tummy. “This is your doing?”

“Some, yeah. Not the murdering but definitely the orgies.” He said proudly.

“That’s what you call…” your hand moved ahead of you trying and failing to pinpoint, “ that ?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What…” you cleared your throat, “are they doing ?” Blushing, you turned to him again.

His eyes turned red as his smile extended all the way to make wrinkles, “You actually don’t know.” His head leaned back in a big laugh, “oh, you sweet, naive feathered-thing.” His sharp teeth bit his lower lip.

Your eyes rolled as you backed away from him.

“Oh, come on, don’t leave, I can’t let you go up there with that doubt.” 

“I will ask Michael.” You kept walking.

“In the best case he will tell you they are sinning, the worst he will send you down to me.” He cut off your way, standing in front of you. “I will explain what it is and why they do it.”

“Do it quickly.”

The ghost of a smile creeped his face. He seemed to think about it for a second, then he asked, “do you know how babies are born?” 

It was your turn to laugh, “of course!” 

He raised both eyebrows, expectantly. 

“Families pray to God for a baby, so He makes it and sends it to them through the mother’s belly.”

Loki took a hand to his mouth to avoid a burst of laughing. “I guess that is a way to see it.” He swallowed and turned his body towards the multitude again. “But there is something that needs to happen within their bodies for a baby to get into the mother’s belly.” His arm surrounded your shoulders as he angled your body to face them as well. “See that?” Loki’s finger pointed to a naked man standing.

“Yeah, what of it?” 

“He has something between his legs that is different from what a woman has, isn’t it?” Loki’s eyes fell on you, his head was much closer than ever before, his brow almost leaning in yours. You nodded softly. “From there, sometimes, comes out a pasty liquid that goes into the woman’s belly and starts to, anatomically, form the baby.” 

“Oooh.” Your head nodded in full understandment, “that is why she is putting it in her mouth!” You pointed to a woman kneeling in front of a man.

This time he could not stop himself from bursting out laughing. He even took a few steps back and faced the wall to calm down while you tried not to think of the coldness on your shoulders now that his arm was gone.

“That is not.” He tried but a laugh interrupted him. After a few more deep breaths, he turned back again. “That has entirely another purpose, and we will get there, but first, see those two?” He pointed to a couple, the man was lying on top of her, pushing his body on hers. You nodded to Loki. “That is how he puts the pasty liquid inside of her belly.”

“So all these people, are they just gathering to make babies together?” Your eyes returned to Loki, who stared at you with wonder.

“Not necessarily. Now we will talk about pleasure.” His voice darkened as he leaned to you, placing his arm on your shoulders once again, but now he turned you away from the crowd, towards him.

“What is that?” 

His eyes scrutinized you, as he was deep in thought. “What do you enjoy?”

“Uh?”

“Anything. Food, music, nature, talking to Michael .” He rolled his eyes at the last one, making you giggle.

“I like music. I come to earth sometimes just to hear it.” A blushed crept in your face as you confessed.

“You sinner.” He said with sarcasm. “Alright, what you feel when you hear music” a clasp of his fingers and a quartet of musicians appeared in the corner, filling the venue with a strong melody, your eyes closed and a breath left your mouth. “That’s what they feel when they do what they do.” He whispered in your ear, flustering you even more.

Instinctively, you took a step back as you opened your eyes. Loki, in front of you, had a devil smirk on his face.

“Well.” You swallowed, “God does not like them pleasuring themselves like that.” Your words felt stiff as you spilled them.

“Well, God does not like many things, does he?” 

You ignored his comment, “Thank you for explaining your demonic doing to me.” You turned on your heel and started to walk away.

“Let me know next time you get curious.” 

You did not dare to look back and yell at him, mostly because he would then have noticed the color of your cheeks.

***

The Egyptian heat was starting to get to you, so much for angels not having bodily experiences. Your mouth was dry and you craved something to ease your hunger. Staring at the enslaved people working under the sun while you smoothly and quietly worked on Moises faith, was starting to weaken you. You knew it was wrong, you were not supposed to feel anything, but to see this injustice and not be able to stop it made you miserable; the sun along with all the evil surrounding you made your strength wobble.

You could feel Loki was always around, of course he had to, needing to maintain the minds of the slavers rotten.

For a reason you could not comprehend, you followed his aura until you found him, staring at sin with a smile.

“Hey, angel.” He smirked.

“Hey.” You barely whispered out of exhaustion.

“Are you alright?” He turned his entire body in your direction, his shoulders shrugged and his brows furrowed.

“I am just” you sighed, “tired”.

Everything started to fade around your eyes and before you knew it, you collapsed.

You woke up in a dark yet cold space, lying on a comfortable bed, a wet towel on your forehead and air caressing your face. After a few blinks, you identified Loki sitting in front of you, reading.

“And she lives.” He said sarcastically with his gaze still fixated on his book. “You know, you really should talk to your boss about an 8 hour shift.”

“It is not that.” He finally directed his eyes to you, a warm ocean blue staring into yours. “There was just… too much evil around.” 

“And yet you went to me” he scoffed.

“I had a feeling that you wouldn’t let me die.”

“Well you shouldn’t have!” He stood, enraged.

“Am I not alive?” 

“I could have done anything with you!” He raised his voice even more, “I could have murdered you! I could have dismembered you, or even worse, take you to hell and let everyone have a feast! And then take you back to heaven’s gates for your big boss to see who you ran into.” He sneered as he paced around the room. All you did was chuckle.

“But you did not.”

“I am a demon, dear. Angels do not go to demons when in need.” His voice was vicious, the warm blue in his eyes turned to ice.

“I did not go to a demon, I went to you.”

He stopped his rant to breathe out and look at you. “Well it was dumb.” 

You smiled, “but you saved me.”

His eyes closed with a faint smile on his lips, “like I said, it was dumb.”

“I should eat something” you ignored him looking around the room for food.

“There” A red apple dropped on your lap.

You turned to see Loki with a mocking smile and a scowl, “really?” 

“It's just an apple!” His eyes rolled, “just eat it and get the hell out of my bed.”

***

“Yes, lamb blood on the lintel.” You finished explaining to the family and walked off, looking for the next ones when a man reached your step.

“A bit too far this one, eh?” Loki whispered near your shoulder.

“It is not in me to question my Lord’s order and neither should you.” Your voice was filled with pride and duty.

“He never liked the first borns, anyway.” He mocked.

You turned to see him again, both eyebrows raised. “Of course hell would find a way to make this about themselves. God does not revolve around you, you know?” You asked with a smirk.

He scoffed, “of course.” 

He kept your pace and waited outside as you delivered the Holy message to all the households in Egypt. After the sunset you finally sat down on a boulder and he stood stoically in front of you.

“My feet are killing me.” You raised and stared at both your feet, red and trapped in sandals, dirty from all the walk of the day. With a clasp of fingers they were clean and you dipped your chin in gratitude towards Loki.

He kneeled in front of you and removed your sandals from your feet, rubbing circles on your soles with his thumbs.

“What are you doing?” Your voice revealed nothing as you stared hollowly at him.

“Trying to ease the pain.” He did not falter, his hands kept working on your skin.

“I mean here today, with me.” 

He stopped to look at you, dropping your feet to his lap. “Well, the Egyptians could take you hostage, imprison you or worse, marry you to some random.”

“Did you know Egypt is one of the places where a woman is the safest? I can buy land, I am free, I can divorce, even.” You explained with a cocky smile.

“I thought you weren’t a woman.” He reciprocated.

“I thought you were dangerous.” You bit your lower lip to stop smiling. “Are you trying to protect me?”

“No!” He scowled, “just keeping you company.”

You hugged your knees on your chest, “Thank you, then.” Another smile escaped your mouth.

He only growled in response as he stood up from the ground, patting his pants roughly to take off the dirt.

“Why did you fall?”

Your whispered question stopped his movements altogether, his eyes rose to yours but not with anger, but with pain.

He took a step forward, not breaking eye contact, and for a while his eyes told you he was having an internal battle.

“Because I was not as worthy as my brother.” Loki finally muttered before walking away.

***

“You can still stop this, take him to justice.” You whispered in the human’s right ear.

“Just stab him.” Loki bittered on his left.

“This is not the way.” You tried to convince him.

“It is the only way.” But the demon next to you kept tempting him.

Brutus finally stabbed Caesar, putting an end to his dictatorship.

You walked out of the Theater of Pompey, defeated, with Loki following nearby.

“Cheer up, darling. Brighter days will come.” He mused.

“I doubt it. Poor Cleopatra, may God help her grief.” You prayed, head down.

“She is not one of yours, you know.” 

You raised your face to find him standing in front of you. “ Everyone is one of ours.” 

You sat down on the steps of the Theater.

“Can you imagine the amount of filth that is on that floor?” 

“I didn’t take you for a clean one.”

“Are you kidding? That’s why I’m up here all the time.”

You giggled, “look at the bright side, fire kills bacteria.”

He scowled, “Very funny. I didn’t know you were capable of joking.” His head tilted softly to the side.

You rested your palms on the floor, leaning backwards a little to lift your face to him.

“Humans are starting to grow on me.” 

Loki smiled. “Don’t get too attached, dear, I will still take them from you.”

“You should take me-” his eyebrows rose and his smile grew, “TO DINNER.” You yelled, offended. “I’m hungry, okay? Trying to stop a murder is exhausting.” You rose to your feet, two steps above where he was standing, finally being the same height gave you the full view of his lusting eyes.

“I’d take you anywhere, angel, to dinner, for a drink, hell.” He smirked as he extended his arm for you to lean on.

“You don’t even go to hell.” You accepted his offer, placing your hand on him.

“I can still give you a guided tour.” 

You both laughed as you walked off.

***

“ ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants’ . And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.” Jesus spoke with great calmness to his disciples, and you listened from afar with a smile.

“Do you think he means it?” Loki asked on your left. You scoffed.

“Of course, He does not lie.” You pointed at Jesus with your chin, leaning a little closer to Loki. “You just need to repent.” You said softly, looking at him.

His chin was held high, proudly; looking down on everyone around. He growled in response before stepping away from you and disappearing.

***

“You did this, didn’t you?” You asked Loki with tears in your eyes.

He stood beside you, his hair a bit longer than before, wearing a green tunic that made his eyes pop and his skin even paler.

“Oh, no angel, that was not me.” His hand cradled your cheek to wipe away a tear.

“Then who else could have done this?!” Your tears kept falling as you watched the man you had been sent to take care of, be tortured and killed.

“I’m afraid it was your boss, darling.” 

You turned to see Loki, enraged, “No, He sent his son to teach humans the holy word, he did not sent his son to-“

“Die for their sins? That was the whole plan.” 

“I don’t understand.” You covered your eyes with your hands.

“Don’t worry your divine little head with that, you don’t have to understand, you just have to obey.” Although there was hatred in his words, he sounded sincere and kind, somehow. “What happened to him, anyway?” Loki asked, as you both stared at the man being nailed to a wooden cross.

“Mm?” Your eyebrows rose as you turned to face the demon next to you.

“The big guy. Ages ago he would’ve torn this place to ashes for much less.” 

You smirked, “yeah, or under water.”

Loki laughed, “or filled it with, what were those awful bugs?”

“Locusts!” You yelled with a smile and his smirk softened. “Yeah… I guess parenthood made him softer.” Your arms crossed on your chest.

“Wanna grab a drink? You don’t have to see this, y’know?” You looked once again and saw how the cross was slowly lifted. Your eyes closed instantly.

“Yes, but-“ you bit your lower lip anxiously, “I don’t have any money.” Loki rolled his eyes with a smirk and before he spoke you continued, “And I can not just make it appear, it’s… against the rules.” 

“Of course, modesty and all.” He laughed, “Don’t worry, angel. It 's on me. Now and every other time you allow me.” He wrapped an arm around your shoulders to guide you through the crowd.

***

You looked at Loki from afar, a bunch of people were sitting around him while he showed them a book and explained what was inside.

He raised his eyes to you eventually, with a smile you dipped your chin in a gesture of challenge. After an hour, he finished his lesson by giving all the people a book and then walked to you.

“What brings you to America, angel?” 

“Evangelization, of course.” You smiled at him. “You?”

“Same thing, I’m afraid.”

“Is that why you gave them books? Are they your disciples?” 

“Sort of.” 

“But you were teaching them how to read, you dirty liar!” You accused him with a smile.

“Well, technically, it is a sin for them to know how to read.”

You busted out laughing, “no it’s not!” 

“Your people say it is!”

“Well they are obviously wrong! I wonder whose work it is that got them thinking some humans are better than others!” 

He smirked, “Point taken. But you are still losing, angel.” 

You took a step closer to him with a seductive smirk, “How is having a demon doing good deeds losing?” 

“So you know this is wrong? How has your boss not sent them a message that this is wrong?” 

“He does not communicate with them like before, you know that. His message was loud and clear with Christ and He has given them free will, the shall be judged in the afterlife.” The air of holy and perfection came back to you, making Loki roll his eyes. “You, on the other hand, seem to have understood Christ’s message perfectly.” The corners of your lips tilted upwards.

“I am going against your own rules.” Loki gritted.

You scoffed, “Whatever floats your boat, love.” And with the same seductive smirk, you walked away.

“You calling me love certainly does.” 

You did not turn back.

***

“What is that?” You pointed at the shiny chain around Loki’s neck.

“Oh, this? Is called jewelry.” 

“Is it ornamental?” You took a step forward to inspect it closely. 

“Yes and no. It is very expensive.” He pulled it from your fingers to put it back into place. “You see humans found out that the big guy left some shiny rocks down here and they are making these out of those.” He extended his hands to show some other metals around his fingers. “Only kings and queens use them.” He gave you one to inspect.

You fiddled it while you laughed, “but you are no king, you’re the lowest being in the universe!” 

“I may have fallen, but I kept my title.” He snatched back and put it on again. “I am still a Prince. And I brought you one.” He searched in his pocket and extended a golden chain with a dangling charm.

“What is this?” You looked at it, there were two lines, one horizontal and one vertical, against each other. The horizontal was slightly shorter than the vertical.

“It is what your followers use to identify each other nowadays.” 

Your brows furrowed as you tried to understand, “but what does it mean?” You look back at Loki.

“It symbolizes the cross where Jesus died.” He calmly explained.

“IT WHAT?” You tossed it away but Loki catched it gracefully. “That is AWFUL. Why would they choose the Lord’s most traumatic event as a way to identify their religious beliefs?” You gasped in horror. “This is your doing, Loki.” You pointed a finger at him.

The corners of his mouth quirked up, “I’m afraid I can not take credit for that.” He extended his hand with the chain to you again. “Use it, let them see you as one of them. Maybe they will even start following the rules more closely led by your example.” His eyebrows perked up in a quiet petition. You only nodded.

He walked to your back, you lifted your hair as he clasped the thin, golden chain around your neck.

“It is quite pretty, though. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it, angel.” He whispered in your ear.

***

“What are you wearing?” Loki scowled.

He stood in front of you with a full black outfit, as usual.

“My-my tunic.” You looked down on you, blushing. “Why?”

“You will draw attention.” He clasped his fingers and your white tunic turned into a red velvet dress, the bodice was tight lining your waist and breasts, with golden embroidered details, while the skirt’s details were in a darker shade of red. 

“What are you doing?!” You gasped at the change. “What is this?!” Your open hands signaling down your body.

“It is my treat to you.” A devilish grin adorned his face, “although I can’t say it’s not for me too.” His eyes wandered your body.

“Oh and this color!” You finally touched the fabric, changing its color to a light blue and white details and a much more loose bodice. “Much better.”

Loki pursed his lips in disapproval. “Be careful, let’s hope the King does not see you and desires you to marry.” He offered his arm to you, gracefully you placed your hand on the inside of his elbow and let him guide you through the street.

You chuckled “Henry the Eight is married already, perhaps since it is an alliance blessed by God you did not notice.” You added smugly.

With a smile on his face, Loki raised your hand and placed a kiss on your knuckles. “Soon enough you will know what I mean, dear.”

You both walked through the London streets looking for a decent looking tavern to share a drink.

“So what have you been up to lately?” You asked, lifting a golden goblet to your lips.

“The usual, you know, tempting.” A charming smile adorned his face. “You?” 

“The opposite, of course.” You smiled as well, “your 

brother asked me about you the other day.”

Loki nearly spat his drink, still coughing, he asked, “pardon me?” 

You tilted your head to the side with a smug smile.

“And what does my dear brother say?” 

“He is very surprised I haven’t seen you all these years on Earth.” You said with a smirk and he quickly matched.

“Well I was always the smart one.”

You tried your best not to laugh but you could not hold it, and just as you gained your breath again, a big sweaty hand fell on your shoulder.

“Haven’t seen this whore before.” A fat man grabbed you towards him, but before you could react, Loki had unsheathed his sword and stabbed him dead.

You gasped in horror while Loki pulled you to him and transported you elsewhere. In just a second you were in Spain.

“What did you just do?!”  You asked, horrified. 

“I saved you.” He answered calmed.

“You killed him.”

“He disrespected you and was going to hurt you.” He stood proudly in front of you.

“You murdered him.” You took a step towards him, although he was much taller, you defied him with your stare although your breath was hitching, still in complete shock.

“Yes, for you!” He snapped, shouting at you, “And God knows I’d do it again!” He lowered his face to yours and in his eyes was long gone the saphire blue, replaced by a hellfire red.

“Then I shall not allow the opportunity.” You straightened yourself to walk away but he stopped you with a hand on your waist.

“Angel.” His hoarse voice was not demanding this time, but begging .

“Fallen.” 

You look into his red eyes until they return to blue, actually feeling the rage leave his body. You tried to focus on your breathing instead of how you felt with his digits still on your body.

“Farewell, Loki.” You sighed.

“See you around, angel.”

***

You were sitting on a bench in front of a church looking at the just married couple. They looked happy and inlove, everything around was filled with flowers. You looked with joy and a pinch of jealousy. That’s when he appeared next to you.

“Did you summon me?” He asked, sitting next to you.

“No!” You scowled, “I would never-“ a gasp left your mouth.

“Oh, you sinner.” He sneered. “What is it that made you sin?” His eyes wandered around, struggling to find it and you did not try to help him. “Them?” He pointed at the people gathering outside of the church.

“I am not jealous in a sense that I don’t want them to have it.” You quickly explained, straightening yourself. “I just wish I could too.” 

“Oh, darling!” Loki laughed, “you are better than that, you are an angel! They wish to be like you.”

“But I just want that!” You cried out.

“A wedding?” 

“No! A family.” Your head lowered in shame, “a partner to share my life with.” 

You felt Loki leaned closer to you. “Why don’t you ask Micha-“ His mock was interrupted by your lips, since you grabbed his hair and clasped your mouth to his.

He was hesitant at first, but he quickly adjusted to your pace and kissed you back fiercely. One of his hands cradled your cheek while the other sat on your waist, pulling you to him.

“Took you long enough” he whispered in your mouth.

the avengers character shots

fucking hell what even is this, Tomathy--

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