Interstate Love Song
Interstate Love Song
Summary : Bucky tells the team he saw his Hydra days in The Void. You are the only one who knows him well enough to know he is lying.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Best friends to lovers. Fluff, bit of angst, reader is mentioned to be an ex-cage fighter. Reader is part of the team. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. The title is inspired by the song of the same name by Stone Temple Pilots.
Requested by : anon (the ask is very spoiler-y so I have not answer that yet!)
Word count : 4.6k
Note : Please keep the post-thunderbolts* requests going! If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!
Before the Blip, you were just another number in the system. You were just another fighter in a concrete box, thrown into illegal cage matches as entertainment of the rich and corrupt.
You weren’t there by choice.
You’d been taken young, trained to fight, to break and survive.
You, like many that ended up in the ring, had no family. For as long as you could remember, the only love you knew of was crowds that screamed for blood.
When Thanos snapped his fingers, half your captors turned to dust.
The door was unlocked, and for the first time, no one came to stop you.
You ran.
You later spent the next few years working in the shadows: Bounty hunting, private contracts, smuggling.
You had no real allegiances, just a reputation: you always got the job done.
You’ve assisted Sharon Carter with her art smuggling, helped Xu Xialing train fighters in her more ethical, opt-in cage fighting endeavours, and ironically, some of the same people you used to fight besides turned to crime when the world lost structure, so you started hunting them for cash.
Others had taken to more righteous but extreme causes—like the Flag Smashers. You tried to keep your distance until Sam Wilson showed up at a bar you get your bounties from and dropped a name you hadn’t heard in years. And then Bucky Barnes sat down beside him and said, “We could use someone like you. Sharon Carter gave you a pretty good reference.”
The mission was to track down an old cage mate of yours who was loyal to Karli Morgenthau.
So you took the job. Then the next. And the next.
Working with Sam was easy—he had a leader’s clarity. Getting to know Bucky, however, was a bit of a slow burn. He was distrusting at first, he had little words to say for strangers.
You didn’t push, but the more you went on these missions, the more you started noticing the way he always kept you in his eyeline, the way he started covering your flank, and the way he actually laughed at one of your dry jokes on a mission in Beirut.
Over time, it stopped being just a job. You started grabbing takeout with Sam and Bucky. You stuck around their shitty motel rooms talking about music and how weird the world felt now. Joaquin started joining in, too, and somewhere along the way, you became friends.
By the sixth joint mission with Joaquin, you and Bucky had inside jokes. By the tenth, he was texting you first when he was lonely— not Sam.
It wasn’t that he intended to spend less time with the new Cap and more with you— but when Joaquin became his de facto second-in-command, it made sense for Bucky to seek companionship in you.
Then came the day he told you he was thinking about running for Congress. You blinked and laughed. He shrugged, saying something about “making amends on a bigger scale.” And when you stopped laughing long enough to realise he was serious, you listened. You offered advice, telling him he’d need to hire a security team to keep his campaigns safe.
“That’s why I want you to oversee it,” he said that day.
“Are you kidding me?” you chuckled, sipping on your beer in the bar he had chosen to hang out in, “I’m not a fucking secret service agent.”
“Exactly,” he gave you that infuriatingly charming grin— the one you were sure would win him votes. “I don’t trust those people. I trust you.”
So that’s how you became head of security for his campaign. And it wasn’t just work. Those nights often ended in long conversations. Sometimes you’d find him on his balcony after an event, and you’d just sit with him.
By the time the campaign was over, you began working private security gigs around D.C., your apartment only ten minutes from his. You both stopped pretending it was coincidence when he started showing up with food or you’d crash on his couch after staying out too late. Somewhere along the line, you’d become his closest friend.
After everything you’d both been through, it just made sense.
—
Post-void New York, 2027.
Bob had just quite literally been dragged out of a personal hell of his own making and nobody at the table came out unscathed. Not really. Not after that.
But at least you all were alive. And starving.
Especially after Val ambushed you with that press conference.
The five of you had decided on the dingy pizza joint. It was a miracle the place was even open considering what had happened to the city, the old red-neon “PIZZA BY THE SLICE” sign buzzed overhead like it was short-circuiting from your collective trauma.
Yelena had chosen the booth closest to the back. She claimed it was strategic—"less visibility from the windows"—but Alexei knew she just liked to sit with her back to a wall. She had a slice of extra cheese, grease dripping down her fingers as she methodically peeled off the mushrooms.
Alexei was next to her, cutting his slice with a plastic knife and fork like it was a fine steak. “I’m civilized,” he announced when Bucky raised an eyebrow.
Ava was perched on the end of the booth, chewing through two slices stacked on top of each other, sauce smeared across one cheek. Her tactical suit. had one broken buckle that kept slipping open.
John sat across from them with his boots up on the chair next to him, leaning so far back in his seat it creaked like it was about to break. He had a half-empty cup of soda and two untouched slices in front of him.
You were tucked into the booth with Bucky beside you. He hadn’t said much. Neither had you. But you kept elbowing each other every few minutes, like some kind of private Morse code. He could tell you were spiraling; you could tell he was deflecting. Classic.
The pizza in front of you was a crime scene of pepperoni and pineapple, but it was food, and no one had eaten in hours. The last time you'd all stopped was... hell, who even knew? Between the vault and New York, you probably haven’t eaten in more than half a day.
Bob sat at the far end of the table, happily munching through the single marinara in front of him.
You tore off a piece of Bucky’s crust (because he didn’t really like the burnt bits) and popped it into your mouth. “Okay,” you said, loud enough to cut through the clatter, “Void Talk. Let’s go. Everyone cough up your horror visions.”
Everyone around you let out a chorus of groans.
“Nope,” said John, around a mouthful of dough. “Absolutely not.”
You narrowed your eyes and smacked him upside the head — not hard, just enough to remind him who was in charge of emotional vulnerability tonight.
“Ow! What the hell!”
“Johnathan,” you said, sliding into your Serious Voice. Bucky turned toward you slightly, recognising the tone immediately. “We are a family now. Families communicate. Have you learned nothing from all this shared trauma?”
“I learned you’re annoying,” John almost snapped, rubbing his head. “Also, don’t call me that. You’re not my mom.”
“You wish I was your mom,” you shot back. “You’d actually be emotionally stable.”
“And get your horrible taste in pizza?” he snapped, but kept earring anyways. “No thanks.”
“Rude,” said Yelena, pointing at the pie with righteous indignation. “This is quality dollar-slice. Best in New York. Kate Bishop said so.”
“Oh, well if Kate Bishop said so,” Ava deadpanned, finally skewering an olive. “Let me just re-evaluate my whole palate.”
“She has good taste,” Alexei defended, somehow sipping from two sodas at once.
You laughed. For once, you felt warmth in your ribs. You felt Bucky’s elbow nudging yours again, this time a little more gently. He still hadn’t really spoken, but when you glanced his way, he gave you that half-smile, the one he reserved just for you.
“Come on, then,” you said, “Trauma-sharing time.”
Bob’s smile faltered, the small in his eyes dimming in his eyes a little. “I have a feeling you all saw me in there,” he said, though he aimed it mostly at Yelena.
She didn’t answer immediately. Just reached for another garlic knot and tore it in half with more force than necessary.
Ava smiled, softer than usual, then said, “No shit.”
Yelena exhaled through her nose, like it took effort just to stay seated. “Mine was Red Room,” she said with a shrug. “All of it. The smells. The punishments. Everything.”
Alexei’s hand tightened around his soda. The can crinkled slightly.
“I saw the day I sent you and Natasha away,” he said, with a deep breath.
Yelena glanced at him, eyes still unreadable, but her mouth curved just a little. Forgiveness, maybe. Or just understanding.
Ava poked at the toppings “Pain. Again. Thought I was over it, but apparently my brain missed the memo.”
You looked over, met her eyes. She offered a crooked smile and nudged your ankle under the table.
John cleared his throat, rough like gravel. “Lemar,” he said, knowing everyone could put two and two with just the name. “And… my kid. You know the rest.”
You reached over and bumped your shoulder against his. This time, he didn’t flinch.
Then the attention turned, inevitably, to you.
You rolled your shoulders, and looked down at your grease-stained napkin on the table like it was about to reveal the location to the fountain of youth. “Cage match. My opponent was new. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen.” You picked at the crust in your hand. “I didn’t have a choice, it was kill or be killed.”
You heard murmurs of understanding around the table— sympathy, but not pity. Even John, who had the emotional bandwidth of a concrete wall most days, sighed.
No one noticed how Bucky’s eyes darted to you. No one noticed how his shoulders went just a bit tighter.
Then Bob turned, casual and curious.
“What about you?” he asked Bucky. “You saw something, right?”
For half a second. Bucky looked like he might actually answer.
His eyes met yours briefly.
He looked away too fast for you to read it clearly and stood up from the booth abruptly. “You know what? This was fun. I’m gonna go… clean up,” he said. “Or get ice cream. Probably both. Anyone want ice cream?”
You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed. “Oh, come on, Buck.”
He shot you a look — that subtle one that said not here, not now. The one that always left you guessing.
John snorted. “We know what you saw anyway.”
Bucky froze. “Do you?”
“Hydra, right? Gotta be.” John shrugged, still a little too smug. “It’s your Greatest Hits playlist.”
“Yeah,” he said, his pinky finger twitching as he looked away. “Sure. That’s all it was. Wouldn’t want to bore anyone.”
He grabbed his jacket, eyes flicking to you one last time. You watched him go and said nothing, for now.
The team went back to eating, like the moment had passed. Jokes began to be thrown around again. Slices were being grabbed left and right.
But you didn’t move.
No one noticed how your smile faded into a worried frown.
No one noticed the twitch in Bucky’s human pinky as he stepped out.
But you did. You always did.
—
Later that night.
Val spared no expense—meaning she booked seven rooms in a hotel that had more broken vending machines than working elevators. Still, after dragging the entirety of New York back from the void, even a spring-poked mattress felt like luxury.
Yelena had already claimed the room with the least stained carpet. Ava was currently phasing her hand through a vending machine to get free Hot Flamin’ Cheetos. John passed out with a half-eaten bag of pistachios in his lap somewhere in the lobby. Alexei was arguing with a front desk clerk about how he clearly deserved the king suite because of his "reputation."
Bob didn’t go to his room right away. You caught him sitting in the hallway for a while, back against the wall, head down like he was trying to recover. You passed him a granola bar without a word and walked away.
That’s what he needed.
Not pity.
Just a constant reminder he wasn’t alone.
You and Bucky had been given rooms side by side. Which was always interesting.
—
You unlocked your hotel room door with a dull click, the metal groaning like it hated being disturbed.
You kicked off your boots—one landed upright, the other flopped on its side—and shrugged your jacket off with a sigh, letting it fall haphazardly over the armchair that should’ve been retired ten years ago.
The beige ceiling loomed above you as you stared up and nothing. You did your rounds. You showered, changed, and drank a bottle of water.
Then you heard it.
The unmistakable thud from the hotel room next door.
He was in.
You didn’t hesitate.
Still wearing your pajamas— plaid pants and an oversized shirt—you slipped out into the hallway.
You knocked, once, twice.
He didn’t answer. “Bucky,” you called, your voice just above a whisper. “Open up.”
You heard nothing, but still waited. Then knocked again, harder this time.
This time, the door cracked open.
Bucky was in his dark shirt, the fabric clinging to his shoulders, hair damp and curling slightly at the end. He was wearing a hoodie that was zipped only halfway, and his dog tags glinted faintly beneath the fabrics.
“Hey,” he greeted, his voice frayed.
You matched it with a small smile. “Hey.”
Bucky stepped aside, inviting you in.
The room was dim, washed in the amber glow of a single bedside lamp. You climbed onto his mattress, sitting cross-legged at the foot like you’d done a hundred times before.
Bucky stayed by the window, staring out like the skyline might offer him answers to questions he didn’t even know how to ask. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his hoodie,
You picked up a pillow and lobbed it at his head.
It hit him squarely in the side of the neck, making him flinch.
He chuckled. “Seriously?”
“You were brooding too much again,” you said, already reaching for another. “I had to restore balance to the Force.”
He caught the second pillow mid-air, tossing it lightly back at you. “What balance?”
“I’m the charming one. You’re the grumpy one,” you grinned, “It's the dynamic. We have to maintain the ecosystem.”
He rolled his eyes— but the corner of his mouth lifted into a small smile that softened all of his sharp edges.
And then, for a second, it slipped—just a flicker. Something must’ve crossed in his mind, because you caught the furrow of his brows.
“You okay?” you asked, your voice lower now.
He didn’t answer, but sank down beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His arm brushed yours, and he didn’t pull away.
“Just tired,” he said, though it sounded like something he’d practiced saying.
You nudged your shoulder into his. “You know I didn’t buy what you said at the pizza place, right?”
Still, he didn’t look at you. But you saw it. That twitch of his pinky finger— his right hand.
Yeah. You knew.
“Why not?” he asked, trying to sound casual and failing.
“Because you’re lying,” you said gently, without sounding like an accusation.
Bucky didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know what you meant. He just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them. He stared at the carpet like it might split open and offer an escape route underground.
“I told you,” he said, the words slurred by exhaustion, as his finger uncontrollably moved again. “It was Hydra. Red and black nightmare sequence. All very on-brand.”
You just raised a brow. “Pinky twitch.”
“What?”
“It’s your tell. That’s how I know you’re lying.” You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal.
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching on stubble. “You are so fucking annoying.”
You smirked. “Says the guy who keeps inviting me in.”
“You showed up to my door in pajamas,” he said, half-laughing as he turned to face you. “And you just barged in.”
“I did not,” you insisted, shrugging, “and even if I did, you wouldn’t have stopped me.”
He shook his head but didn’t deny it.
He let the silence fester in place before offering answers. “You really wanna know what I saw?”
You nodded.
He swallowed hard. You could see the muscles in his neck working. Still, he didn’t look at you.
“You remember that mission in Munich?” he asked.
You nodded slowly. It was a recon mission that went sideways.
“You jumped in front of a bullet for me,” he said, like it still didn’t make sense to him. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
“I…” You furrowed your eyebrows. “I didn’t know you saw that.”
“I didn’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Not at the moment. I was behind you. All I saw was you hitting the ground.” Then he looked at you, his eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, “That’s what I saw in the Void,” he said, voice shaking like a tightrope. “Over and over. I felt… useless. I– I… for a second. I thought I lost you..”
His hands clenched into fists on his knees and admitted, “I’ve never been more scared in my life.”
Your chest tightened. “That was your worst memory?” you whispered, almost in recognition. “Thinking I died?”
He flinched like the words had teeth and had sunk its fangs into his legs. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it means something,” he said, voice breaking at the edge. “And I’m not supposed to—” He cut himself off with a ragged breath, dragging a hand through his hair like it might help. “God— well you know what? Since we’re on this, what about you?” he asked. “You were lying, too.”
You gasped, only a little. “Excuse me?”
He gave a sad smile. “You don’t think I know your tell?”
You squinted. “I don’t have a tell.”
“You do.” He insisted, shifting a little closer. “You look down when you lie. You did it earlier.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but all that came out was a strangled noise of offended denial. “That is not—”
“It is,” he said, interrupting you. “So. What did you actually see?”
You looked away, then back at him again.
Because he deserved that much.
Because you didn’t want to lie anymore, either.
“Do you remember,” you said carefully, “when you got stabbed on that mission in Rabat?”
Bucky nodded. He frowned, confused.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I remember. Back alley. Guy with the gold tooth. You iced him before I even hit the pavement. Why?”
You took a deep breath, trying to steady your voice.
“That’s what I saw,” you said, barely above a whisper. “You, bleeding on the ground.”
He froze.
“The story I told—about the kid in the ring,” you added, your voice more hoarse now, “was true. All of it. It just… wasn’t what I saw in the Void.”
The air between you thickened, like the seconds had turned to diamonds and trapped you both inside them.
“I remember thinking I was too late,” you continued, words spilling before you could second-guess them. “I remember thinking I couldn’t get you to safety in time.”
Bucky didn’t speak. He didn’t move.
Because now he knew you’d both seen different sides of the same coin in there.
Your worst memory wasn’t the ring.
His wasn’t the Hydra orders.
Once, it might have been. But not anymore.
The worst thing—for both of you—was thinking you had lost each other.
Not cages.
Not torture.
It was each other.
You exhaled, the edges of your eyes brimming with tears. He looked back at you like he was seeing you through an entirely different lens— like something had cracked open and the sunlight was finally getting in after a century of darkness.
He studied you for a long time —eyes narrowed slightly, lips parted like he might speak but wasn’t sure if he should.
Then he said it.
Like he’d just thrown a grenade in the room.
“Are you in love with me?”
Your brain short-circuited. “What?”
“What,” he echoed flatly, like he hadn’t even processed the question himself, as if the words had slipped out of his mouth without permission.
You stared at him, wide-eyed, heart hammering in your throat like it wanted to escape. Heat warmed up your neck, your ears, your face. “Bucky—”
He leaned back slightly, like your flustered cheeks had just confirmed everything. “You are,” he said, eyebrows lifting in disbelief. “You are, aren’t you?”
“I am not,” you snapped to quickly. Without meaning to—you looked down.
Fuck.
“Oh my god,” Bucky breathed. “Your eyes—”
You scowled, half in horror, half in deflection. “You’re one to talk! Why was your worst memory thinking I died, huh?”
“Yours is too, dumbass! So what? ” he shot back, arms flaring in exasperation. “You want me to say it?”
“I don’t know!” you fired back, your voice rising. “Do you want to say it?”
Silence settled again. But this time, it wasn’t brittle—
“Fine,” he finally said, a lot quieter now. “I’ve been in love with you since that stupid night in Prague when you made me carry your three-foot-tall duffel bag full of grenades and gummy worms and said, ‘Trust me, it’s all essential.’”
Your voice came out barely audible, cracked around the edges. “Oh.”
But he wasn’t finished.
“And ever since then,” Bucky went on, “I’ve been more scared of the future than the past.”
Your breath hitched. “What does that even mean?”
He leaned in slightly, his eyes locked on yours,
“It means,” he said, like it cost him something to admit it, “that my nightmares are less about Hydra and more about losing you.”
It hurt. God, it hurt, in the way truth always does. You could feel it echoing in your chest, splitting you down the middle— because you were friends, right? And just friends weren’t supposed to have these unbearable feelings. What was this going to do to your relationship?
Because everything had changed.
And now there was no going back.
His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, like the confession had physically cost him stamina.
And you— You couldn’t breathe.
“You…” The word barely made it out. “You’re in love with me?”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah.”
You didn’t answer.
Your body stayed frozen, your mind reeling, spinning, flipping through every moment you could’ve known. Every time he’d looked at you like you were the only thing in a world that had never betrayed him. Every time you’d ignored what was right in front of you because it was safer to pretend it wasn’t real.
“But it’s okay,” Bucky whispered, eyes dipping to the floor once again. “I know I might be wrong about what you feel, so you don’t have to say anything. I know I’m—”
Enough.
Your hands grabbed the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric, clinging on to it and bringing him ever closer
“Shut up,” you whispered.
His breath hitched in his throat like you’d just knocked the wind out of him.
“Just—don’t say anything,” you said, your voice trembling. “Because if you do, I’m going to say something I can’t unsay, and then we’ll ruin it, and I can’t—I can’t lose you, Bucky.”
His hands rose slowly, palms open. He cupped your face, fingertips brushing along your cheekbones.
“You’re not gonna lose me,” he promised. “You can’t.”
Your forehead stayed pressed against his. You could feel his breath against your lips.
So close.
“I’m in love with you too,” you breathed out
Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed, just for a second. You felt the tremor in his body ripple through yours.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
Your voice was barely steady. “I’m in love with you, dammit,” you laughed a little. “I’ve been in love with you since Sam sent us on that mission to that cramped motel with one bed and no hot water. Since you patched me up in Munich. Since before Munich. Since always.”
Fuck.
He didn’t wait.
He kissed you.
Not carefully.
But like hellhounds that had been caged too long had finally broken loose.
It was desperate. It was breathless. Mouths crashing, bodies colliding like you’d done this in every dream you hadn’t dared speak of. His hands slid into your hair, holding you close like he was terrified you’d vanish. And yours gripped the back of his neck, pulling him in like you were afraid you’d wake up.
By the time you pulled apart, you weren’t sure whose heart was beating faster. But you stayed close—foreheads pressed, noses brushing, sharing oxygen.
For a long moment, you didn’t move.
Then Bucky’s hands slid down from your face, fingers tracing along your jaw, your neck, and your shoulders like he needed to relearn you. Like he needed to prove to himself this was real.
“You’re shivering,” he pointed out, brushing his thumb over the hollow of your throat.
“I’m not cold,” you said, breathless.
He chuckled. “No. You’re not.”
His lips brushed yours again, slower this time, like a promise instead of a question. And when your mouth opened under his, when your hands slid beneath his hoodie and found bare skin, the heat roared to life like it had just been waiting for permission.
The kiss deepened—a little reckless, all tangled need and pent-up frustration. His hands found your waist, your hips, pulling you flush against him, and God—you’d felt his strength before, on missions, in training, but this was different. This was personal.
This was want.
“You always smell like gunpowder and cinnamon,” he muttered against your jaw, lips brushing the spot just below your ear.
“I just smell like gunpowder,” You laughed—half-dazed. “You smell like cinnamon.”
“Hmmm,” he said, trailing kisses down your neck, “whatever.”
You sighed, tilting your head to give him more space, your fingers tugging gently at the waistband of his sweatpants.
He groaned as his hands slid under your shirt, palm flat against your lower back. You gasped at the contact and he froze, just for a second.
“You okay?” he asked. “I don’t want to screw this up.”
You looked at him—his hair was mussed, lips swollen. He had a familiar crease between his brows that said he was afraid of wanting too much.
So you kissed it.
“We’ve survived everything else together," you whispered, "Don’t you think we can survive wanting each other, too?”
He backed you toward the headboard slowly, lips never leaving yours, hands exploring like he’d been dying to touch you for two years and finally had the courage. You fell back with a breathless laugh, legs tangling instinctively around his hips.
Bucky settled over you like he belonged there—which he did. Every inch of him was familiar and new all at once.
“Still in pajamas,” he complained, grinning against your collarbone.
“What, don’t like em’?”
“Never,” he said, mouth sliding lower, “but they’re in my way.”
You gasped as his fingers hooked in the waistband of your pants, his eyes locking on yours. You nodded as he peeled them off.
This wasn’t just chemistry. It wasn’t just lust.
This was two years of friendship, late-night missions, teasing over meals, arguments that always ended in laughter—this was trust.
This was love, finally allowed to want.
-end.
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@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
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@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat
@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot
@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess
@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol
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@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst
@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23
@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt
@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125
@buckybarneswife125 @wingstoyourdreams
More Posts from Twotablelamps and Others
Whoever was in charge of Bucky deciding to take off his jacket needs to get a raise.
shall I? SHALL. I.
For Better or For Worse
pairing: Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader
warnings: MAJOR SPOILERS, angst, themes of trauma, mentions of violence, mentions of pregnancy, eventual fluff, bucky and reader working out their marriage problems
notes: so i actually first started working on this piece a month before the movie came out and wasn’t able to complete it until i actually saw the film. there will be some inaccuracies since it’s purely based off memory but i hope you guys enjoy!
summary: You want a divorce, but Bucky needs your help for one last mission. Luckily, marriage is all about compromise
The court issued papers fill Bucky with unease as the two of you sit at the dining table in silence. Neither of you has said a word since you presented the documents to him when he returned from his office, and his gaze has been glued to the petition for a painfully long amount of time. The legal jargon doesn’t catch his attention, but one word has stuck out from the rest and branded itself at the forefront of his mind.
Divorce.
These papers are meant to finalize your divorce.
“I just need your signature,” you prompt him quietly after taking a nervous swallow. You try to remain poised, but Bucky knows you well enough to detect your anxious tells- the way your leg bounces nervously under the table while your right hand absently tries to fidget with a ring that isn’t there. He sighs and allows himself to sink back further into his chair while he attempts to organize the amalgamation of thoughts swirling in his mind.
“This is what you really want?” Bucky asks gently, tone devoid of judgement or resentment and instead filled with quiet defeat.
“Are you kidding? I don’t want this at all,” you insist miserably, unable to stop yourself from reaching for his hand across the table. “I love you, Bucky. More than anything. But we haven’t been on the same page in years.”
“Of course we’re on the same page,” he stresses incredulously as if it’s ridiculous to believe otherwise. “We love each other, we’ll do whatever it takes to keep each other safe, we’re a team.”
A disappointed frown takes hold of your features as you carefully pull your hand away. Your eyes are full of sorrow and grief for your failing marriage, and Bucky doesn’t understand why his words have garnered such a reaction from you. He asked you to be his wife out of love and complete adoration for the woman who had risked everything to help him become the man he is today. Wasn’t that enough?
“When we got married, you promised me we’d retire and start our lives somewhere quiet away from all the danger. We’d do the whole white picket fence thing and grow old together, maybe start a family now that all the super hero stuff was behind us. But then Sam needed our help, and I didn’t mind suiting up again for a friend.“
“Of course you didn’t,” Bucky affirms with a faint smile, heart nearly bursting with pride at the mere thought of your selflessness. Steve had once said your compassionate heart could melt even the toughest of soldiers, and Bucky had been no exception when first meeting you.
“I thought that would be our final send off, but then came Valentina, then your congressional campaign, and now the impeachment. It never ends, Bucky,” you say emphatically, exhaustion and defeat present in your tone. Quieter now, you let your eyes fall back to the documents and swallow back your tears before continuing, “I’m starting to realize now that there never will be a house with a white picket fence.”
“Y/n, come on,” Bucky pleads earnestly, “of course there will be. Just give me some time-“
“That’s what you always say,” you point out with a smile that fails to reach your eyes. Your husband is desperate to change your mind, the panic evident in his features as he scrambles to make things right before it’s too late.
“I can change.”
“If you can honestly look me in the eyes and promise me your days of fighting are over, I’ll shred the papers myself.”
A heavy silence follows your words, and you sit expectantly as you wait for him to make a move. Bucky’s eyes wander to every corner of the room, analyze every speck of dust that lands on the table, but they’re never once able to look into your own. You know you have your answer, and Bucky knows there is no changing your mind now.
“I’ll still help you find evidence for Valentina’s impeachment,” you assure him numbly, your fingers absently fidgeting with the buttons on your shirt. “I’ll help you organize your argument and figure out the next step, but you’re on your own after that.”
“About that…” Bucky utters guiltily, looking at you like a dog caught with its tail between its legs. Your brows furrow slightly in confusion before your shoulders slump in disappointment. You know what’s coming, and you know you’re not going to like it.
“What did you do this time?”
“The evidence I’m looking for, it’s not a paper trail or the location to some facility. It’s… people,” Bucky admits with a wince, sinking further back into his chair when he notes the frustration evident in your features.
“Oh my god, Bucky!” You exclaim in exasperation. “What do you mean it’s people?!”
Bucky hates seeing you angry, especially when your anger is directed towards him, but he desperately tries to extinguish the flames before they can get worse.
“Valentina sent people to cover her tracks- contract agents.”
“And who are the agents?” you press him, annoyance clear in your tone. He winces, clearly not looking forward to admiting the truth to you.
“John Walker, Ava Star, and Yelena Belova… But y/n, I swear to you, I had no idea about her involvement when I asked for your help taking Valentina down,” Bucky insists honestly in response to the ire clear on your features, hoping you’ll understand his point of view. Of course he didn’t mean to disrespect your wishes, but it had all happened so fast he hadn’t been given an opportunity to right it.
“Natasha was my best friend, and I promised if anything happened to her I’d keep an eye on Yelena in her place,” you remind him indignantly with an irritated huff. Bucky lets his head hang in shame. “You realize you’re asking me to go back on my word by going after her, right?”
“I know… and I’m sorry. But this is important. The fate of the world could be at stake.”
“It always is,” you mutter testily. Bucky sighs.
“Look, just… before I become a divorced middle aged man, can you just go on this one last mission with me? Think of it as a final send off,” Bucky coaxes with a nervous smile. “And when all is said and done I’ll sign the papers.”
You pull your lips back into a thin line as you stare down the man sitting across from you. You’re not exactly pleased with this entire situation, but a part of you knows you’d feel horrible turning your back on him when he needed you most. Despite your impending divorce, you still loved Bucky with your entire being, and you always would have his best interests at heart no matter the case.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” you curse under your breath, more directed at yourself than at Bucky. “I know I’m going to hate myself for this, but I’ll help you.”
The relief that washes over Bucky’s face is almost rewarding, but you try not to let yourself get too caught up in the fantasy. You still aren’t an Avenger, and going on a life threatening mission isn’t going to magically fix the problems in your marriage. You’re simply doing this as a favor to the man you love, and you’re adamant about not letting yourself fall in too deep.
You only hope Bucky keeps good on his promise to you because he can’t afford to break any more.
~~~
You carefully pull the zipper of your suit closed before taking a step back to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Despite years of inactivity, it still fits you like a second skin, and you hate it. The last time you’d suited up had been to stop the Flag Smashers, and when it was over you swore to yourself you’d never put it on again. You’d shoved it towards the very back of your closet hoping to forget it existed, and yet here you stood being haunted by your past in spite of how hard you’d worked to separate yourself from your life as an Avenger.
“You look good,” Bucky compliments from behind you, figure leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest as he takes in the sight of you. He desperately wants to cross the room and pull you against him, hold you by the hips and pour all of his gratitude for your help into a kiss, but he refrains. He doesn’t want to cross any boundaries, but he isn’t exactly sure how to act around his soon-to-be ex-wife. The air is awkward with uncertainty and tense with your anger at having been dragged into this mess, but neither of you dare make note of it.
“I look like an Avenger,” you mutter dryly before pushing past him in search of your boots. “Now tell me again what the plan is.”
“Thanks to Valentina’s assistant I have their location. There’s an abandoned mechanic shop along the way, and you’re going to wait for me there while I bring them in. All I need you to do is help me keep them in line and present the evidence at the hearing.”
“Doing all the dirty work?” You muse with a raised brow. “How noble of you.”
“I know you don’t want to be here, so I’m trying to keep you out of the action as much as possible,” Bucky avows with a sigh, making a move to reach out for your hand only to quickly pull it back. If you notice his slip up you say nothing of it, only holding his gaze as he continues, “I can’t promise this won’t go sideways because it very well could, but I’ll have your back just like I always do.”
Your hard exterior softens at his confession, and you find your eyes quickly darting to the floor to avoid his burning stare. Your heart tightens in your chest with despair as you’re reminded of the fact that despite your impending divorce, you love him with your entire being. Bucky has been by your side for years, and you’re terrified of what life will be like without him as your partner, but you keep reminding yourself that it’s for the best. There isn’t a future there anymore, and you’re tired of living a life of fighting. You’re no longer compatible, and the sooner you accept it the better off you’ll be.
“You should go,” you urge, abruptly ending the tender moment he’d created. “If what Mel says is true about them escaping then they probably already have a target on their heads. You need to get to them first.”
Nodding in understanding, Bucky bids you goodbye by placing an awkward hand on your shoulder. It isn’t very subtle by any means, but the gesture has you cracking the smallest of smiles at the man. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Be careful, James,” you say quietly, a hint of vulnerability shining through your tone. Despite the front you out on, your eyes always give you away. Bucky can note the worry in them, the love you hold for the man you married all those years ago. He knows it’s naive of him to think a woman who’s always been so strong willed would ever change her mind after it’s already been made up, but he really hopes he won’t have to sign those papers when you finally get home.
“Always am for you,” he replies with a faint smile, unable to stop himself from gently brushing his knuckles against your jaw the way he knows you like. Your eyes flutter shut almost on instinct form the contact, and in spite of your better judgement you find yourself missing the feel of his touch when he pulls away and leaves you to your own devices.
As planned, you drive yourself to the mechanic shop and sit in wait for Bucky to return with the agents. You’re restless trying to find ways to keep yourself busy in his absence- stretching, unloading and reloading your gun, scrolling through the latest news articles regarding Valentina’s impeachment. You appreciate Bucky’s want to respect your wishes as much as he can in the situation you find yourselves in, but you feel useless not being part of the action. The quiet leaves you with nothing but your thoughts, and all you can focus on is your broken relationship.
Where had it gone wrong? When was the moment it finally occurred to you that you weren’t happy? Were you making a mistake?
Your agonizing rumination is interrupted by the sound of the front doors slamming open. You quickly rise from your place on the work bench and watch as the disheveled group is ushered in by your husband. Hands bound and defeat clear on their faces, you think it’s safe to say the rest of this mission should be easy enough.
“It cannot be,” a voice utters in awe, prompting you to turn your inquisitive gaze towards the man with the unkempt beard and red suit. “It is y/n Barnes! The Avenger!”
You shift awkwardly at the feeling of all eyes now focused on you and offer a meager wave of your fingers in response to the man. Bucky simply rolls his eyes and forces the group to sit before reinforcing their restraints so they can’t escape. You find your gaze subtly shifting to the blonde woman seated a few feet across from you, chest tightening at her mere presence. You don’t know her personally, but you’d heard endless stories about her from Natasha when she was still alive. She’s different from what you pictured, but there’s no doubt in your mind that this is Yelena.
“Y/n, great to see you again,” John greets with an airy grin despite currently being bound with a metal rod. You hold back a laugh when Bucky forcefully tightens the restraints in annoyance at hearing the man attempt to start a friendly rapport with you. It’s clear your husband still isn’t a fan of Walker, not that you blame him considering what you’d been through with the man.
“Wish I could say the same,” you hum with a subtle shrug. “I’m just here to help clean up Bucky’s mess.”
“And what mess would that be?” Ava prompts with a grunt after Bucky tests her restraints.
“Whatever mess I need to make to prove Valentina’s guilty,” Bucky answers for you. “You guys are the evidence, so you’re going to march into that impeachment hearing with me and tell the board everything you know.”
“No, no, see, we don’t work for Valentina anymore,” Yelena interjects despite Bucky’s skeptical glare. “We actually are working together to take her down.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that?” Bucky scoffs.
“She’s telling the truth, Bucky,” John interjects, and while the Winter Soldier doesn’t seem interested in what they have to say, you are.
“What’s really going on then?” You ask, inquisitive gaze meeting Yelena’s frenzied blue eyes.
“Valentina was going to incinerate us, but then we met Bob and escaped.”
“Bob?” Bucky retorts in disbelief.
“Yes, Bob! We thought he was just some weird guy, but it turns out he can fly which would have been good to know when we were stuck in that elevator and-“
“Okay, okay, enough. You can say whatever you want but it’s not going to work.”
“Bucky,” you call gently, his features immediately softening at the sound of his name falling from your lips. You shift closer to the man and lower your voice to a hushed whisper before speaking, “I don’t think they’re lying.”
“What? Of course they are!” He scoffs indignantly, prompting you to roll your eyes in response. “You expect me to believe a story about some guy named Bob?”
“I expect you to be impartial. Isn’t that kind of your thing, Mr. Congressman?” You rebuff sarcastically much to the man’s chagrin. “The least you can do is hear them out.”
“I think you should listen to her,” Alexei pipes innocently, only serving to agitate the man further. However, before he can offer a rebuttal the sound of his phone ringing interrupts your conversation. You watch your husband shoot him a warning glance before answering the call.
“Hey,” another voice calls, prompting you to shift your focus onto Yelena. “Are you really an Avenger?”
“Retired,” you correct her with a faint smile.
“But you were one,” she insists, “and if you were then… you knew my sister.”
You feel your chest tighten immediately at the mention of Natasha, the air around you suddenly becoming thick with tension as all eyes land on you. You shift uncomfortably on your feet and cross your arms defensively over your chest before offering a single nod of acknowledgement to her statement. By the look on her face you know she wants to ask you more, but your conversation is interrupted by the sound of Bucky’s exasperated voice.
“Valentina was working on something called Project Sentry?” He retorts, catching the attention of your hostages. “A guy named Bob?”
“Yes, Bob!” All four exclaim indignantly at finally being proven right. You hold back a laugh and instead give him a pointed look as he finally hangs up his phone and sighs.
“Alright, change of plans. I’m going to stop Valentina, and you guys are coming with me.”
“Wait, us?” Yelena retorts in uncertainty.
“Yeah, you,” Bucky replies with a raised brow. “Why? You got some place to be?”
“Bucky,” you interject pointedly, grabbing onto his arm and pulling him aside to create some semblance of privacy from the others. “What the hell are you doing? You said we were just gathering evidence, not risking our lives fighting against some super powered experiment.”
“That was before I learned she’d created a literal human weapon,” he rebuttals with an exasperated wave of his hands. “I told you things might get messy, but we can handle it. We always have.”
“You seem to forget that I don’t want to handle it,” you remind him pointedly. “I’m here because I care about you, because I love you too much to leave you hanging, but this isn’t my life anymore.”
“You think it doesn’t kill me to ask for your help?” Bucky prompts gently, unable to help himself from fervently taking your hands in his own. “You think throwing you into a dangerous mission at the last second isn’t gnawing at my entire conscious right now? I know what’s at stake here, and I know you don’t owe me anything, but we have to do this. You know we do.”
You pull your lips into a thin line and shift your gaze to the ground as you contemplate his words. You’d told him you were done with fighting, even decided to end your marriage because of it, but you knew he had a point. You couldn’t exactly retire if the world was left in ruins, and you also knew you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if something happened to Bucky because you chose to bail on him instead of seeing your final mission together through.
The feel of his hand gently squeezing your own brings you out of your thoughts and back to the present. You allow him to gently lift your chin with his metal hand so that he can meet your eyes, causing your heart to leap in your chest at the intimate gesture. You haven’t been this close to him since you professed your desire to end the marriage, but the man still has a way of softening your hard exterior with ease.
“You know I would never let anything happen to you,” he utters softly, “so I need you to trust me.”
Your lips pull into a slight pout as you fight within yourself to resist melting into his touch. You shouldn’t still be this attached to a man you’re about to divorce, but you love him, and that’s what makes this is all so complicated.
Finally, you let out a sigh and solemnly reply, “I trust you, and I’m going to help you see this through to the end because no matter what we’re partners.”
“Partners,” Bucky repeats fondly, chest swelling with pride at the notion. You may no longer be husband and wife, but at its core your relationship is one of teamwork and trust. Retired Avenger or not, you’ll always be there for Bucky when he needs you.
Because in spite of the legal documents sitting on your coffee table back at home, you still love him with your entire being.
And that terrifies you.
~~~
You feel the ground jostle beneath you as Bucky drives over another pothole. You’re not exactly the most comfortable stuck in the loading bed of the truck the team decided to steal, but Alexei had been so excited to ride shotgun with the Winter Soldier that you didn’t have it in you to protest. Besides, it was something you’d have to start getting used to now since ending your marriage also meant ending your passenger seat privileges.
Yelena, John, and Ava proudly boast their weaponry, but you’re too lost in thought to register any part of their conversation. Bucky had been vague when revealing the details of where Valentina’s Watchtower was located, and you knew him well enough to figure out when he was hiding something from you. You had no idea what secret he was keeping, but you had a feeling you weren’t going to like what was waiting for you at the end of this drive.
You feel a nudge against your boot and look up to find the three now staring at you expectantly. You blink in surprise before asking, “Were you saying something?”
“Are you really Bucky’s wife like John says?” Ava prompts with intrigue.
“I… technically still am, yes,” you reply with a careful nod, fingers already beginning to search for your missing ring on instinct.
“What do you mean by that?” John questions with furrowed brows. You shoot him a glare and awkwardly shift in your seat, not exactly thrilled at your personal life being put on the spot by people you’ve only known for a few hours.
“We’re getting a divorce,” you state bluntly in an attempt to simply rip the bandage right off. The man looks stunned, and the air has now suddenly become thick with awkward tension.
“Did not see that coming,” he breathes out remorsefully, clearly regretting having asked in the first place. “How could you be getting a divorce? The last time I saw you two you couldn’t spend more than five seconds away from each other.”
“It’s complicated, and no offense but I’m not about to get into my marriage problems with a truck full of strangers,” you snark defensively. He raises his hands in surrender and says nothing more, but your mood has effectively been ruined.
“I have a question,” Yelena pipes up with an innocent raise of her hand. “If you say you’re retired, then why are you helping us?”
“Because I can’t exactly retire if Valentina blows the world up with her bullshit,” you explain with a harsh exhale. Then, features softening, you utter, “and I couldn’t live with myself if I let innocent people get hurt because I chose not to help them.”
“God, you sound like an Avenger,” Ava scoffs in detestation, “so selfless and kind. How’d someone like you become the Winter Soldier’s wife?”
You smile faintly at the question, chest filling with warmth as your mind drifts back to all those years ago when you’d first met Bucky. Despite how things are now, you don’t think you’d change any of it.
You had just worked your way up to becoming an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D. when Pierce pulled you aside for a ‘special’ assignment. Too naive to question why he’d want to trust a rookie with an important job, you followed orders and went to the designated coordinates full of excitement for your first job. You had no idea he was setting you up to run into the Winter Soldier so he could see your potential firsthand. You barely survived the fight, and Bucky probably would have killed you if they hadn’t called it off, but Pierce decided then that you would be his new pet project. You were sworn to secrecy after being threatened with your life, and you didn’t dare try to resist.
You trained mercilessly under the watchful guidance of the Winter Soldier, pushed to your breaking point nearly every day until you were deemed ready to join him on missions. You became his shadow, following his every move and making it your own. Eventually, you were trusted to tend to him after assignments as well- cleaning his wounds, calming him into submission, tending to whatever need he had. In a strange sort of way you were partners, and he came to respect you as an individual instead of viewing you as a subordinate. You became close, too close for Pierce’s liking, and the man decided you no longer fit into his plans.
Bucky had been ordered to kill you the next time you were sent on an assignment together, but the plan was thankfully intercepted by the arrival of Captain America and Black Widow. The entire operation had blown up thanks to their efforts, and you were freed, but your companion was nowhere to be found. The Avengers took you in as their own, and in that time you struggled to accept that the man you’d grown so close to had left you behind.
Your paths crossed once more in the wake of the Sokovia Accords, and though your reunion had initially been uncomfortably awkward, you soon were able to fall back into your old routine. Your partnership became friendship, and when you chose to stay behind with him in Wakanda it evolved into a relationship of unwavering love and support. You helped each other work through what Hydra had put you through, understood each other in a way no one else did, and promised to be by one another’s side for the rest of time.
The trio is captivated by your story, and you find yourself falling quiet as you realize such a promise can no longer be kept. Your marriage is ending, and eventually you’ll go back to being strangers once more. You sniffle, awkwardly clearing your throat as you realize you’d become more vulnerable than you intended to be with the group. Their solemn gazes burn your skin in a way that’s suffocating, and you wish they’d just move on from the topic already.
“I know it’s not my place,” John begins, filling you with trepidation and unease, “but it sounds like you’re making a mistake.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look, I don’t know the full story, but it’s obvious you still love him. You shouldn’t give up so easily-“
“You know what, John? You’re right,” you retort bitterly, tone dripping with sarcasm, “it’s not your place. In fact, you’re the last person I’d take marriage advice from, so why don’t we just keep our opinions to ourselves.”
The man’s features fall at your harsh comment, and while you’d normally feel remorse for snapping at someone so quickly all you feel is anger at yourself. You know his words hold some truth to them; you still love Bucky, and you want nothing more than to stay married, but neither of you can seem to reach an agreement that suits both of your needs. He can’t live a life of inaction, and you can’t give up on the picket fence dream, so what the hell are you supposed to do?
The rest of the truck ride is quiet, and no one dares to ask anymore questions about your marriage.
~~~
You understand now why Bucky seemed to be so avoidant about disclosing the location of Valentina’s new base. How was he supposed to tell you that the new building she’d acquired was the one you once called home?
Your entire body feels on edge as you squeeze into the elevator and watch the doors close as you begin to move towards the top floor. It’s been years since you stepped foot in this building, but you still know every turn and corner like the back of your hand. Memories of the past haunt you like ghosts, causing your chest to ache with nostalgia and longing for a time that had long since passed. Your days as a fresh faced recruit had been so simple and safe; you hadn’t experienced real tragedy yet, and you were protected in the little bubble you lived in as an Avenger. Everything had changed so quickly, and you still found yourself struggling to pick up the pieces.
“Hey,” Bucky’s voice whispers gently, hand coming to rest comfortingly on the small of your back, “you okay?”
“I don’t know,” you answer truthfully. You feel like you’re in a daze, and you’re not sure how you’re supposed to handle being thrusted back to your past. “I never thought I’d come back here.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” he murmurs sincerely. “I know I should have, but I thought it might overwhelm you.”
Too lost in anxious thought, you absently reach for his hand just as you’ve done numerous times in the past and hold on tightly to ground yourself. Though he’s surprised by the action, he’s able to respond by giving your hand a gentle squeeze back.
“I’m here,” he promises you. You swallow thickly and give him a small nod, bracing yourself as the elevator doors finally open to the top floor.
Your hand never leaves Bucky’s as you cautiously step forward and begin to scan the room. You can see that Valentina has taken the liberty of redesigning the place, but the layout is still identical. You can almost see yourself sitting on the couch watching Tony attempt to lift Thor’s hammer, having a talk with Steve on the balcony after a rough day of training, lounging at the bar counter begging Natasha to show you how to make her signature cocktail.
Some of your happiest memories are permanently embedded in this building, but that all fades away at the sight of Valentina pouring herself a glass of champagne right where you pictured Natasha to be.
“Took you guys long enough,” she jests coyly before making her way around the island counter. “What do you think? This place certainly wasn’t cheap, but I think it’ll do just fine. God, can you imagine the glorious battles that took place in this very room? I know you can, y/n.”
You tense at her observation and feel your lips curl into an irritated scowl at her blatant disrespect. It takes everything in you not to lunge at the woman, and if not for Bucky still tightly grasping your hand you’d be in the midst of throwing a right hook.
“This ends today,” Bucky warns her lowly as your group begins to surround the woman. Each and every one of you has a bone to pick with her, and you’re eager to finally bring her to justice and get this whole thing over with.
“Congressman Barnes, wow,” she greets with feigned surprise. “You know, I never really thought you’d have a promising political career, but less than half a term? Yikes.”
You take a step towards her only for Bucky to pull you back, causing the woman to let out an amused huff through her nose. Her smug demeanor and careless need to insult your husband has you fuming, but that’s exactly what she wants. Valentina knows how to get under someone’s skin, and you fair no better to her mind games than anyone else.
“Mrs. Barnes,” she greets cordially with an air of false sweetness, “I can still call you that, right? Congratulations on the impending divorce. I gotta say, I like you much better as an Avenger than a housewife.”
“Retired Avenger,” you correct her through gritted teeth. “This suit’s coming off as soon as we kick your ass.”
“You know, I never understood why you two were together, but I’m starting to see it now.”
“We’re taking you in, Val,” John interrupts only for the woman to chuckle in response.
“I don’t think so, junior varsity Captain America.”
He immediately reaches for his gun, and though you’re interested to see where this will go Bucky is quick to interject and have the blond stand down. She hums, clearly unthreatened, and turns her attention to the other two women in the room.
“Oh, nice to see you, Ava. Yelena,” she pauses while looking the Widow up and down, “you look awful. Are you sure you’re really ready for that public facing role you asked me about.”
“Eat shit, Valentina,” Yelena says bluntly before taking a menacing step towards her. “Where’s Bob?”
Despite being clearly outnumbered, Valentina remains calm and sure of herself as she takes another drink from her glass of champagne. “Look at you, you all are so adorable. Just think, I send you down there to kill each other, and instead you make nice and form a team.”
The circle around her grows tighter, and you watch on edge as Bucky takes a step towards the woman with his hand aiming for her throat. However, an invisible force prevents him from moving any closer, prompting your group to look between each other unsurely.
“Oh, I’m not alone,” she explains apologetically before glancing towards the stairs. It’s then that a new face enters the room, and you watch with uncertainty as a blond man in a golden suit slowly makes his descent down the stairway.
“Bob?” Yelena calls skeptically. After everything you’d heard from the group, the man before you is certainly the last person you’d ever expect to be the Bob they’d discussed.
“His name is Sentry,” Valentina corrects, “and he’s my get out of jail free card. Once I bring him to the impeachment trial they’re sure to let me keep my job. In fact, I’ll be able to protect the American people in the way I see fit.“
“That’s never going to work,” you argue indignantly. “They’d have to be crazy to give you full control.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Valentina coos mockingly before turning to Bob. “Sentry, these people are criminals and a danger to the American public. I need you to dispose of them for me.”
You carefully rest your hand on the handle of your gun, watching intently as the man looks from your group to Valentina. You have no idea what he’s capable of or how this fight is going to turn out, but you’re ready to do whatever it takes to make sure you get to go home after all is said and done.
“I don’t want to,” Bob says uncomfortably, “they’re not a threat to me so why should I have to fight them? I don’t want to hurt anybody.”
Despite his hesitance to complete Valentina’s request and Yelena’s insistence for the group to back off, a fight soon breaks out between Sentry and your team with Alexei being the first to throw a punch. You assume that with the numbers on your side you’ll be able to defeat him with ease, but you couldn’t be more wrong. The hero is essentially indestructible, and every punch you throw or bullet you fire doesn’t so much as leave a scratch.
You barely manage to miss getting toppled over by Ava after she’s thrown across the room, rolling out of the way and landing next to Bucky who looks rightfully frazzled. You can tell he hadn’t been expecting this either, but the fact that you’re currently on the same page brings you little comfort.
“I have a plan,” you pant breathlessly while picking yourself up off the floor. “You distract him from the front and I’ll creep up from behind.”
“You really think that’s going to work?” He breathes, watching as you pull your knife from your thigh holster.
“Only one way to find out,” you reply with an easygoing shrug despite the dread that’s pooling in your stomach at the thought of this going wrong. While you’d initially joined this mission due to the fact that you couldn’t retire if the world was in danger, you’re starting to realize now that you can’t retire if you’re dead either. You just hope this works.
Bucky gives you a single nod before sprinting full speed at Bob, allowing you a window of opportunity to creep up behind him. You grip the handle of your knife tightly in your hand before lunging forward and driving the blade into his neck, but to your horror the impact causes the metal to crumple in on itself. Your knife falls to the floor with a deafening clatter, and suddenly Sentry’s focus is on you as his hardened gaze closes in on your terrified face.
His hand shoots out before you can react, fingers closing around your throat as he slowly lifts you off the ground. Your hands desperately claw at his arm while your feet try to kick him away, but he doesn’t even budge. His gaze is cold and unfeeling, as if your pathetic gasps for air are but a mere nuisance to him. You can feel the world fading around you as he tightens his grip, and you can’t help but to think how poetic it would be for you to die here in the tower.
“Let her go!” Bucky growls before pulling out his gun and relentlessly firing at the superhuman. He’s panicking. He can see the fight slowly starting to die within you, but he’s not about to let you be taken from him so easily.
“Fine,” Sentry utters unpityingly before carelessly throwing your body across the room like a rag doll. You slam into the wall behind the bar counter, bottles of liquor shattering from the impact and digging into your skin as you drop to the ground in a heap of broken glass. Bucky’s eyes widen in panic before turning sharp with unbridled rage. His chest is tight with an anger he hasn’t felt since his time as the Winter Soldier, and all he can see is red as he pulls off his jacket and tosses it to the side.
Your entire body feels like it’s on fire, a sharp pain shooting up your spine as someone rushes over and picks you up out of the glass. The room feels like it’s spinning and your vision is so spotty you barely register Alexei looking down at you with worry as he carries you over to the others. You reach back with a groan for Bucky, but the Red Guardian shushes you in what he hopes is a comforting manner before handing you over to John.
As you feel yourself finally starting to come to, the first thing your gaze focuses on is the sight of Sentry catching a punch Bucky has thrown with his metal arm. You watch in dismay as he slowly twists the appendage before ripping it straight off and hitting your husband upside the head. You cry out in horror as his body slides across the floor in front of you, and despite the way your own body screams in pain you forcefully drag yourself over to him. He’s barely conscious, a bruise already forming on his cheek, but the gentle touch of your hands on his face has his eyes fluttering open to meet your worried gaze.
“Y/n?” He groans, prompting you to let out a sigh of relief.
“Hey, I’m here, honey,” you assure him in a trembling voice, “I’m here.”
It’s clear there’s no winning the battle against Sentry, so your team quickly scrambles to their feet and makes a dash towards the elevator. Alexei helps you carry Bucky inside while Ava makes sure to grab hold of his discarded arm, and with a rapid push of the control panel the doors are sliding shut and sending you back to the ground floor.
Things fall apart pretty quickly after that.
Your entire team disperses despite Alexei’s insistence you stay together as the newly proclaimed Thunderbolts. Only you and Bucky are left standing in front of the tower as you try to figure out the next move, though you’re not exactly in a rush to throw yourself back into the ring with Sentry. Your body aches beyond relief and a dull throbbing sensation has settled in the back of your skull, and you’re barely able to keep yourself upright as you lean back against the building.
“It’s a good thing I never plan to wear this again,” you retort sarcastically while carefully pulling shards of glass from your suit.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks solemnly, hands gently cradling your face to get a good look at you. Thankfully your skin only sports minor cuts and scrapes that will heal over time, but this doesn’t alleviate the guilt he feels in the pit of his stomach. You’re here because of him, because he’d begged you to come in a last ditch effort to save your marriage, and as a result you’d almost been killed.
As if reading his thoughts, you gently reach up to grasp onto his wrists to ground him and pull him out of his ruminative thoughts. “Hey, I’m alright. I’ve been through worse.”
“That doesn’t make it any better,” he murmurs repentantly before carefully pulling you closer to press a kiss to your forehead. You hum appreciatively at the gesture, having missed the feeling of lips against your skin and the tenderness of his touch. It’s getting harder and harder to resist falling back into old habits, but that seems to be the least of your worries now. “I thought I lost you.”
“So did I,” you admit disquietingly, troubled gaze meeting his own worried one.
“What the hell are we doing, y/n?” Bucky utters gently, the softness of his tone harshly contrasting his words.
“Attempting to save the world?” You answer unsurely only for him to shake his head.
“I mean about us, about our marriage. He almost killed you, and the thought of losing you forever terrified me,” he professes earnestly. “We were lucky enough to get out of there alive, but I never want to feel that way again. I can’t just let you walk out of my life when this is all over.”
“James, we’ve talked about this,” you beg him desperately, throat beginning to tighten with the amalgamation of emotions you hold back. “It’s just not going to work. I love you more than anything, but I want to start a family. I want something stable.”
“You’re not even willing to try?” He pleads despite the clear defeat on his features. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from crying and turn away so you don’t have to meet his gaze.
“I can’t talk about this right now,” you shudder while blinking back tears. “It’s all too much, I just-“
You’re interrupted mid sentence as the ground beneath you begins to rumble. Distant screams fill the air and Bucky quickly pulls you into his side as he scans the area for any signs of danger. Your eyes trail towards the skyline above you and you freeze, body becoming rigid as you grab onto Bucky’s arm to get his attention.
A dark shadow hovers above you, chaos surrounding him as he stares you down. Panic floods the streets of New York, and despite the excruciating pain you feel you’re quick to jump into action and assist civilians in evading falling debris and runaway cars.
It seems now you’ll just have to wait until later to discuss the future of your marriage.
~~~
You wake up somewhere cold.
You have no idea where you are, but the last thing you remember is following Yelena into the void in hopes of finding her alive. You’re alone, and your surroundings are unfamiliar as you slowly pick yourself up off the ground and begin to aimlessly wander around. Gravel crunches under your feet as you walk, the darkness slowly fading into light as you begin to hear a cluster of voices.
A door stands before you, cracked open slightly enough for light to seep through and beckon you inside. You slowly push it open and step over the threshold to find yourself in an abandoned warehouse. Across the way from you stands the silhouette of a man, his figure menacing as he hovers over a woman. Her hands tremble with the weight of the gun she holds, her heavy breathing and quiet sobs filling the air as she points the weapon towards the man bound to a chair in front of her.
“Pull the trigger,” the man utters in Russian, the familiarity of it filling your stomach with unease. A sense of dejavú washes over you, and as you come closer to the scene you start to realize that you do know where you are.
“I can’t,” she snivels, flinching as his hands come to rest upon her own and steady her grip.
“You must,” the man coaxes her, and after an agonizing pause of silence a gunshot rings through the air. You gasp, stumbling back in shock at being faced with a memory you thought had long since been pushed to the back of your mind and forgotten.
Your first kill under Hydra.
The sound causes both figures to turn, and you feel sick to your stomach as you meet the gazes of the Winter Soldier and your younger self. His eyes harden, his approach menacing as he begins to step towards you, and you quickly sprint back to the door in a desperate attempt to escape his clutches.
You slam it behind you just before he can grab you, falling back against the wood with a heaving chest as you try to catch your breath and steady yourself. Your eyes squeeze themselves shut in an effort to keep the rising tears at bay, and when you open them again you discover your surroundings have changed once more.
You’re in the training room of Avengers tower, and you’re met with the sight of yourself angrily swinging your fists against a punching bag. Your knuckles are raw and bloody from the force you use, but you remain relentless. You keep going, even as the sobs begin to wrack your body and your momentum begins to slow.
You frown, slowly walking up behind your other self and resting a comforting hand on her back. She seems to falter before collapsing against the bag and breaking down into an ugly crying fit. The sound echoes throughout the room and fills you with unease, but you continue to run soothing circles into her skin to calm her down.
“Why did he leave me?” She sobs, prompting a chill to go down your spine. You remember this point in your life, the aftermath of Pierce and the collapse of Shield. Bucky had disappeared, and though you were grateful to the Avengers for taking you in as one of their own, you couldn’t understand why he hadn’t come back for you. You knew you meant something to him, you had to after all the time you’d spent together and the fact that he’d defied his orders to kill you. You’d never felt more alone, and all you wanted was your James.
“He thought you’d be better off without him in your life,” you assure her even though she doesn’t seem to hear you. “He did it to protect you because he loves you. You’ll see him again.”
The memory resets, and soon she’s back to assaulting the punching bag with all of her pent up anger. You leave her to grieve and make your way out of the room. No matter where you go, the pattern is the same; each place holds a defining moment in your life, some more painful than others, but all of them force you to confront your past.
You’re still no closer to finding Yelena or the rest of your group, and you’re starting to become frustrated. None of this makes any sense, and you feel like a rat aimlessly running through a maze. At one point you become so fed up you break through a mirror in an attempt to land somewhere else, and you end up falling face first onto a patch of dirt. The sunlight is jarring after being stuck inside for so long, and you raise your hand to shield your face so you can survey your new surroundings.
Slowly getting back up onto your feet, you quickly put the pieces together and come to realize you’ve landed back in Wakanda. You think you’re alone at first, but as you turn around you come face to face with a pair of blue eyes. Your heart stops at the sight of him and you falter, unsure whether or not to reach out for him.
“Steve?” Your voice calls, but it isn’t your lips that his name falls out of. You quickly whip around to see yourself limping forward with a deep gash in your side that you desperately press your hand against. Your hair is shorter, features younger, and suit different from the one you wear now, but these details allow you to quickly determine what point of your life you find yourself at now.
“What happened? Where’s Bucky?” Your past self questions uneasily as she scan the area for any sign of the man. Steve looks away guilty, refusing to meet her gaze as he thinks of something to say. “Steve?”
“He’s…” the Captain starts to speak, unable to finish his sentence. Her face falls while her hand immediately rises to hover over her mouth in shock. Tears immediately well in her eyes as she slowly shakes her head in disbelief, suffocating anguish clawing at her throat as she struggles to breathe.
“No… No, he’s not. You’re lying!” She yells aggrievedly while forcing her aching body to walk towards the man. “Where’s is he?! What did you do?!”
“I couldn’t do anything to stop it,” Steve murmurs gently, eyes pleading as he begs you to understand. “He’s gone. I’m sorry, y/n.”
“You’re lying!” She screams, body finally giving out from the overexertion as she collapses onto her knees. Natasha quickly rushes over and helps your past self back onto her feet, allowing you to lean against her for support as you sob. “He’s not- he can’t be!”
You take a shuddering breath and turn away from the scene, overcome with emotion at reliving your grief and heartache. You thought you’d lost Bucky forever, and in that moment you felt your entire world had ended. He’d been taken from you, and you’d be forced to spend the next five years attempting to pick up the pieces and move on. You’ll forever regret lashing out at Steve so harshly, for taking out your anger on a man that had watched his best friend disappear into dust. He was hurting too, and you wish you could take it back.
You can’t be here anymore. It’s all becoming too much, and despite the fact that you’re starting to lose hope of ever being reunited with the others you know you have to keep trying. You push through the brush and shrubbery of the Wakandan fields in search of a way out, and after fighting tooth and nail to escape you end up stumbling into your apartment.
You feel disoriented and confused at being in your own living room, and for a moment you think you might have somehow managed to escape the Void and found your way home. Everything looks as it should, and nothing is left out of place. You take this moment to let your guard down and rest by taking a seat on the couch, allowing your aching head to fall back against the cushions while you gather your thoughts. You’re emotionally drained, and you don’t think you can keep this up for much longer. Would it be so bad to just give up and accept your fate?
“You finally made it.”
You jump at the sound of another voice in the room with you and look up to see Bucky standing over you with a weary smile. You jump onto your feet immediately and throw yourself into his arms for a hug. He catches you with ease, holding you tightly against him as if you’ll disappear otherwise.
“Bucky, oh my god!” You exclaim before pulling away to cup his face in your hands and look him over. “Is it really you?”
“It’s me, sweetheart,” he assures you before leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of your head.
“How did you find me here? These rooms are supposed to be my own memories.”
“That’s the thing,” he sighs solemnly before casting a glance towards the hallway, “this is my memory too.”
You look up at him with uncertainty and confusion, but before you can question him the front door swings open. You watch as past versions of Bucky and yourself walk into the apartment, both clearly exhausted from whatever public event they’d just attended. You kick off your heels by the door and set your purse on the counter while Bucky shrugs off his suit jacket.
“I think it went well tonight,” he notes with a smile before walking past you to get himself a glass of water. You stand in silence at the island table with your head hung low and hands planted firmly on the counter as you try to gather your thoughts.
“James,” you call gently, unable to meet his questioning gaze, “we need to talk.”
“What’s wrong?” He asks with a puzzled frown, clearly taken back by your sudden change in demeanor. You’d been all smiles the entire evening, so he wasn’t expecting such a drastic switch in tone.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you say in a trembling voice, finally lifting your head to look him in the eyes. Silent tears streak down your face and Bucky feels his chest tighten at the sight.
“Can’t do what anymore? What’s going on, y/n?”
“This!” You exclaim in frustration while gesturing to yourself. “The parties, the public appearances. You promised me when we got married we’d stay out of the spotlight, but not once have we ever been able to have a moment of peace just between the two of us.”
“Hey, come on, of course we have,” he tries to soothe you by gently resting a hand on your arm, but you’re quick to pull away from his touch.
“All the plans we make just keep getting pushed aside for something else. I wanted a house, but we got the apartment to stay in the city in case Sam needed us. I wanted to retire, and yet every time there’s a fight we’re there. I wanted to start a family-“
“We can still do all of those things,” he insists desperately only for you to shake your head in quiet defeat. “I love you, y/n.”
“I love you, James,” you sniffle with a watery smile that temporarily alleviates his anxieties, “but it’s clear to me that we both want different things for ourselves.”
“What are you saying?” He presses you, voice low and apprehensive as he waits for you to speak with bated breath.
“I want a divorce.”
You turn away from the scene in shame as it resets, leaving you and Bucky alone once more in the apartment. Neither of you dares to speak at first, the air thick with tension and discomfort. You don’t even know what to say.
“Hard to believe that was only a month ago,” he jokes humorlessly in an attempt to break the silence.
“I don’t want to end our marriage,” you profess remorsefully. “I just relived every moment we were pulled apart and it was hell. I can’t live without you, but I don’t know how to handle all of this.”
“No one says marriage is easy,” he reminds you, gently resting his hand upon your cheek. “And I definitely haven’t made it easy for you.”
“I just got so tired of fighting,” your murmur faintly, eyes beginning to well with tears. “I want to give it all up, but how can I? I could have said no to you when you asked me to join you on this trip, I could have gone home instead of coming with you to fight Sentry, but I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if something happened to you because I wasn’t there. Being an Avenger is all I know, and I hate that.”
“Hey, come on, you’re so much more than an Avenger,” Bucky coos sweetly while using his thumb to wipe away some of the tears that had fallen. “You’re strong, you’re brave, not to mention you have the patience of a Saint, and I would know considering how much Sam and I have tested it in the past.”
That gets a quiet laugh out of you, and Bucky’s heart swells with pride at being able to get you to smile. He’s missed sharing moments like this with you, tender moments where you keep each other from falling apart. He doesn’t want to lose that.
“What do we do? I want a life that doesn’t revolve around being a world saving hero, and you want to continue to help make the world a better place, so where do we go from here?”
Bucky falters for a moment as he contemplates his answer. You don’t think there is a right answer, and you fear that he might come to that realization. Instead, carefully grasps your chin between his thumb and forefinger to tilt your head upward.
“We compromise,” he answers with furrowed brows, as if surprised at himself for not coming up with it sooner. “That’s what a good relationship is built on, isn’t it? We can have both.”
“How do we do that?” You prompt him, obvious uncertainty present on your features.
“It’s not going to be easy, but it isn’t impossible,” he assures you with a firm nod. “We can have the house and the family, and when the world needs us to suit up we will. We just have to find a balance.”
He makes it sound much simpler than it will be in practice, and though there’s a part of you that fears it’ll never work, there’s also a part of you that will regret it forever if you don’t at least try. Bucky has become a permanent fixture in your life, and you never want to face a point in your life where he isn’t by your side. You’ve been through more hardships than most married couples have, endured awful traumas and challenges, but each time you’ve managed to persevere together.
“Okay,” you breathe with finality, “let’s compromise.”
It feels like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders when you express your want to continue fighting for your marriage. This entire time Bucky has been dreading going home and facing the divorce papers that sit waiting on your coffee table back at the apartment, but he can now rest assured knowing those files will never be fulfilled.
He wraps his arms around you once more and pulls you in for a searing kiss. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders immediately, mouth moving in tandem with his own as you pour all of your love and heartache into your shared embrace. You’ve missed this more than anything, and now that you’re back in his arms again everything feels like it’s finally starting to fall back into place. You know you still have a job to do, but you’re more determined now than ever to save Yelena and get the hell out of the Void.
And you’re determined to do it together.
~~~
You fall back onto the hard asphalt with a groan, your limbs entangled with Bucky and Ava who lay beside you.
Despite all odds, you’d managed to help Bob overcome the Void and return yourselves and everyone else back to the real world. You were free from the nightmares of your past and safe on normal ground. You only wish he could remember everything you’d all just endured together as a team.
You look across the way to spot an apprehensive Valentina waiting for your group. Your shoulders tense in aggravation as the woman immediately begins to spew excuses for her wrongdoings, and you join the others in approaching her with a vengance. You can’t wait to bring her in and get her thrown into jail like you’d originally planned, and when all is said and done you’ll finally be able to go home with your husband.
“Now guys, let’s just talk,” she pleads anxiously before disappearing behind a green tarp. You quickly step through before you can lose her, but you soon regret it as you’re immediately bombarded by roaring applause and the flashing bulbs of cameras. You raise a hand to shield your face from the commotion and grab onto Bucky’s arm to steady yourself.
“What the hell is going on?” You groan in annoyance at being ambushed by an entire swarm of journalists. You don’t exactly look or feel camera ready right now, and the stunt only serves to agitate you further.
“How about another round of applause for our heroes!” Valentina boasts into her makeshift podium. “It is because of their selfless bravery that we are all standing here.”
Despite your disdain for the woman, you have to give her credit- she certainly knows how to put on a show. Your group mates exchange looks of uncertainty as she spews her bullshit speech to the eager reporters, unsure of what her angle is and what she’s about to rope you into.
“Today, the citizens of the United States needed protection, and thanks to my hard work, they got it. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the New Avengers.”
The crowd of spectators break out into joyous cheers of excitement and deafening applause, but none of it registers in your mind as you focus on the words that have just left the woman’s mouth. You’re stunned and unnerved at her declaration, but your stomach quickly grows heavy with anger. You feel like the name of your original team has been tarnished, and you’re fuming at the fact that she’d roped you into this without a second thought. This was not how you ever pictured your return, and you’re at a complete loss of words.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you snarl through gritted teeth, knowing that if looks could kill Valentina would be dead right now. “New Avengers? I am an Avenger.”
“I thought you were retired,” John murmurs under his breath, only fueling your anger further.
“Hold on,” Bucky assuages you, hand coming to gently rest upon your back. “I have an idea that could make this all work in our favor. Do you trust me?”
While your mind is still reeling at being thrusted into the spotlight again with a new team, your nerves begin to dwindle as you meet Bucky’s eyes. His features are sincere and understanding, and though there isn’t a single part of you that trusts Valentina, you trust Bucky with your life.
You give him a single nod before returning your gaze to the crowd. A swarm of journalists stand eagerly waiting to hear your input, dying to know what your plans for the team are as the only original Avenger. Bucky’s hand on your back keeps you calm, and you know that whatever happens next you’ll be able to handle it together.
Just like you always have.
~~~
12 Months Later
While you’d initially been resistant to joining the New Avengers under Valentina’s guidance, you have to admit that things have definitely seemed to turn out in your favor.
Yelena had made it clear to the woman that it was her who worked for you guys and not the other way around. You owned her, and if she wanted to stay out of prison then she had to meet your every demand. She especially needed you onboard considering your status as an original Avenger was the only thing that gave the team credibility, and that made it easier for you and Bucky to implement specific stipulations in your contracts.
You bought a house on the outskirts of the city where you could enjoy paid leave whenever you both saw fit, and under no circumstances was anyone to bother you during your time off. This was the compromise you and Bucky had made to ensure your marriage stayed strong. You could retreat to your quiet slice of normalcy and strengthen your relationship while still taking part in missions and saving lives. You’d finally found a balance for your individual needs, and divorce was now far from ever being on your mind.
Along with the house and paid leave, you and Bucky had also finally been able to achieve a milestone you’d wanted for years in your marriage.
“Watch your step,” he cautions, his metal arm resting on the small of your back while the other clasps your hand in his own as he helps you down the stairs.
“Relax, James,” you wave him off, “just because I gained a little weight doesn’t mean I can’t walk on my own.”
“I’m sorry, I just want to make sure nothing happens to you or the baby,” he confesses remorsefully while delicately resting his hand upon your growing stomach.
While the tower was being renovated for your team’s arrival, you and Bucky retreated to your new home to enjoy some well deserved rest. You settled in and made the place your own, and once your move in was complete Bucky took advantage of the fact that he had you all to himself free of disruptions. Thus, it was a surprise to neither of you that you eventually became pregnant. Though you were nervous about what this would mean for you both now that you were Avengers again, Bucky assured you he would do everything in his power to take care of you and your little one.
In the meantime, you did your best to stay out of the action and work behind the scenes to avoid any injuries that could threaten the health of you or the baby. You gathered intel, conducted surveillance, created strategies for missions, and piloted the jets for assignments requiring travel. You were still an active member of the team, and you took on your role as leader well. It made sense to everyone that you take the title considering your veteran status, and you had no trouble getting everyone to fall in line when needed. Your new little family was growing, and you found yourself at peace falling back into old routines.
“It’s about time you show up, we’re starving,” John calls to you both as you finally make it down the stairs and head towards the dining room where everyone is gathered.
“I’m the one eating for two here,” you remind him with a pointed look before taking your seat at the table. “What’s for dinner?”
“Special stew made by Alexei!” The Red Guardian boasts proudly while setting a bowl down in front of you. “Very good for you and little baby Avenger.”
“Thank you, Alexei,” you smile, waiting for him to turn his back before pushing the bowl towards Bucky for him to inspect. Alexei has a habit of making food that doesn’t exactly sit well with your stomach, so your husband has taken the liberty of taste testing all of his dishes for you.
“Have you thought any more about the names we’ve suggested?” Yelena prompts from her seat beside you.
“Yes, I have, and no, I’m not naming them little Yelena or Alexis.”
“What?” She exclaims with a pout, clearly taking offense to your answer. “What are you talking about? Those are great names.”
“Don’t listen to her, they are awful,” Ava agrees before digging into her stew.
“Do you have a name yet?” John prompts with intrigue. Ever since you’d announced your pregnancy he’d made it a habit to live vicariously through you and Bucky considering he hadn’t been present for his own wife and child.
You exchange a knowing look with Bucky and urge him to answer for you, smiling faintly at the proud look on your husband’s face as he thinks about the arrival of your future daughter.
“Brooklyn,” he states fondly to the surprise of your teammates. The name is an homage to the city he and Steve called home, and you couldn’t think of anything more perfect when he’d suggested it to you. Brooklyn Barnes would be arriving in four months, and you eagerly counted down the days until you could hold her in your arms.
“It’s not as good as Yelena but… not bad,” the blonde admits with a purse of her lips.
Dinner is a loud affair as always, but you enjoy spending time with the people you’ve come to call friends. Once your meal is finished, the group follows Bucky to the training room for drills while you stay behind with Bob and wash the leftover dishes. He’s still a bit reserved, but your inaction in the field has allowed you to spend more time with the man and help him open up to you. You enjoy the contrast his quiet nature brings to your chaotic surroundings.
You retire early for the night and choose to wait in your quarters for Bucky to return from training. Strangely enough, you’d been assigned the exact same room you once called your own during your time in Avengers Tower. At that point in your life you’d been alone and depressed, stranded with a group of what was essentially strangers while you waited for some sign of Bucky’s return. Now, you found yourself happily waiting for your husband to finish his workout with your hands lovingly rested on your stomach.
The doors to the room slide open to reveal a freshly showered Bucky, and he’s quick to immediately pull you into his arms as he joins you in bed.
“How’d it go?” You ask him while pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
“Better than usual. I think they’ll be ready for this week’s mission.”
“I have full faith in your leadership abilities,” you confidently assure him.
“Well, that would make you the only one,” he jests dryly before pressing his lips to your forehead. “Sam’s still ignoring my calls.”
Your features morph into a frown at the mention of your friend. He’d been rightfully upset when he found out what you both were up to, and despite Bucky’s attempts to explain your actions Sam wanted none of it. He iced you both out, and though the news of the baby had gotten him to soften up the slightest bit towards you, he still made it a point to cut contact with Bucky.
“He just needs some time,” you assure him empathetically. “This isn’t your first fight and it probably won’t be your last, but you guys will be okay. I’m sure of it.”
“I just want us to have a better life. I want you to be happy, and I want to make sure Brooklyn will be safe even if that means having to work under Valentina and the government.”
“She will be,” you promise him with a fond look in your eyes, “because she has us, and she has an entire team of people that care about her even if they try to say otherwise.”
Bucky can’t help the careful smile that plays upon his lips at your reassurances. You always have a way of alleviating his worries and calming his nerves. Your marriage was stronger now because of the decisions he’d made to get you here, and he just had to hope Sam would be able to understand that. The safety of his wife and new baby was all that mattered to him now, and he’d do whatever it took to protect you both.
“I’m the luckiest man in the world, you know that?” Bucky coos before pulling you in for a tender kiss that you eagerly accept.
Come what may, you have complete faith that you’ll be okay. No matter the challenge, no matter the danger, you and Bucky have always managed to overcome any obstacle you’ve faced together. The future is never promised, but you know you’ll make it to the other side as long as you have each other.
For better or for worse, you’re Avengers now, but nothing will ever come between you as husband and wife.
~~~
“But we are the Avengers. The government said so,” Yelena protests fruitlessly as you make your way to the debrief room. “How does Sam Wilson not understand that?”
“Well, he does have the shield,” Bucky points out.
“Well, I’ve got a shield too.”
“Yeah, a shield that’s still bent like a taco,” you scoff in annoyance.
“It’s a great shield!” John insists defensively.
“It’s a shitty shield.”
“A great shield, Bucky.”
“Okay, well, if he puts together a team and calls them the Avengers, then who are the real Avengers?” Yelena insists.
“Probably the ones with Captain America on their team,” you sigh despondently, grateful to have finally reached the couch. You slowly sink down onto the cushions with Bucky’s help and lean back in an attempt to alleviate the weight on your spine. The Watchtower certainly wasn’t designed with pregnant women in mind, especially not women who were eight months pregnant, but you were managing. You technically should be home with Bucky enjoying the start of your maternity leave, but an atmospheric disturbance had halted all of your plans and forced you to call an emergency meeting.
“Well, that’s the question the internet has been asking, and judging by the very nasty memes that I’ve read they don’t think that it’s us,” John says while kicking his feet up on the coffee table.
“That’s not fair, we have an original Avenger on our side,” the blonde woman attests. “That means we are just as good as any team led by Captain America. Weren’t you going to talk to him, Bucky?”
“I already did,” your husband professes solemnly, guilt present in his features. “It went poorly.”
His relationship with Sam hadn’t gotten any better. If anything, the conversation had only seemed to make things worse. You felt for Bucky, but no matter what you said or did Sam was adamant in standing firm against the choices you’d made. He’d wished you well on your upcoming baby, but he made it clear that he wanted no part of the New Avengers or Valentina.
“You know he’s filed for copyright of the name,” Yelena informs your group incredulously as she finally ceases her pacing and joins you on the couch. “We’re losing credibility.”
“In which we had very little to begin with,” Ava notes with a wave of her hand. “All we have is an ‘Old Avenger’ to keep us afloat, and now she’s about to leave.”
“I can only carry you guys on my back for so long,” you retort in annoyance while defensively resting your hands on your stomach. “And for your information, just because I’ve been around longer than you all does not mean I’m an ‘Old Avenger.’”
“Yeah, you’re ‘Pregnant Avenger’ now,” John quips, earning himself a warning glare from Bucky.
“And now there’s a huge space crisis and no one’s telling us about it.”
You feel your nerves worsen at the mention of the incoming threat. The world has been off balance in a recent change of events, and though you don’t know what exactly it is, you know a threat is coming. You only have one month left until Brooklyn is born, but it seems you won’t be able to spend your last month of pregnancy at home like you’d initially hoped. Bucky tries to refrain from overwhelming you to keep your mind at ease, but he can only hide so much from you.
As Yelena speaks into her control pad to request a full threat analysis, Alexei proudly walks into the room with a new ensemble that has everyone’s heads turning in bewilderment.
“Hello, team,” he greets while boasting his new suit. “I heard about Sam Wilson. He’s dumb litigious man, but I am smart. I’m smart man, and I have smart solve.”
You watch in bemusement as he gestures to the logo on his new jumpsuit and sounds out the new spelling change of ‘Avengerz.’
“Avengers with a ‘Z.’ There is no copyright.”
“No,” Yelena immediately protests, clearly not up to entertaining her father’s antics.
“Nonsense. This suit, it is soft like baby seal. I have one for you, and you,” he says while looking from Yelena to Bucky. “Avengerz suits for everyone! I even got one for little Alexis.”
“Alexei, we’ve been over this,” you remind him gently, “her name isn’t Alexis.”
“There is still time to change mind,” he reminds you with a dismissive wave of his hand.
You let out a quiet laugh of disbelief and sneak a glance at your husband who very clearly seems fed up with this entire debacle. You should have already been on your way to the cottage by now, and instead you were here mindlessly bickering over issues that seemed trivial when compared to your upcoming due date.
“Satellite image populating,” your computer generated assistant announces while producing a visual on the screen. “Extra dimensional ship entering atmosphere.”
“Extra dimensional? What does that mean?” Alexei murmurs as your group moves closer to the screen.
“It means it’s not from here,” you answer absently, nervously grasping onto Bucky’s bicep as you get a closer look at the ship. A blue number four is etched into the side of the strange looking ship, and you watch as it grows closer to landing on earth.
“It’s a cool ship,” John notes with a meager shrug, trying to alleviate some of the tension in the room.
“So much for maternity leave,” you sigh in a weak attempt to make a joke. Bucky shifts his tense gaze towards you before slowly lowering it to your protruding stomach, his mind reeling with all of the potential dangers you could soon be facing.
Sensing his panic, you carefully take hold of his hand in your own and tightly intertwine your fingers together to bring him back to the present. Your touch grounds him, reminds him that as of now you and Brooklyn are safe beside him, and he thanks you by wordlessly giving your hand a squeeze.
You have no idea what is to come or how your team will fare in the face of this new adversity, but you know that you’ll overcome whatever you need to in order to protect your new family.
“No matter what happens, we stay together,” you tell him firmly with no room for argument. You expect him to fight you on it, to insist you go home and keep yourself far away from the danger, but instead, he raises your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles before offering you a single nod that melts away all of your trepidations.
“Together.”
my sister and me having a great time...
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
It's been a long time since I posted a Loki sketch so here we go 🥹
Light On
summary: when you reach out to joaquin waving the white flag, you realize how broken he's been.
pairing: touch starved!joaquin torres x ex!f!reader
contents: exes to lovers, food and alcohol mention, angst, canon typical trauma/trauma responses, get back together fic, kissing
wc: 1,988
an: i combined my idea for touched starved!joaquin with this request about yearning. sorry it took so long anon and i hope you like it <3
danny ramirez characters masterlist
He’s late to the housewarming. Not by much, but enough that he has to squeeze through a half-shut gate and slip past a crowd already buzzing with drinks and music. His shoulders still feel tight from the last mission—three cities, too many close calls, and not enough sleep. He almost didn’t come.
But when he saw your name at the top of the invite sent only to him, group chat, no passive-aggressive message he could say no to you.
It read simple and gave him a glimmer of hope:
I hope you can come. it’s not a trap. peace offering.
He doesn’t deserve the invite or your kindness, not after how he’d withdrawn so abruptly 8 months ago. He thought ending things before he could truly disappoint you or worse— scare you with one of his missions was the right thing to do. But now he can’t convince himself that this invite isn’t some sort of chance to at least make things right. Better.
Inside, the lights are warm, soft, glowing off glasses and muted green walls. There’s someone laughing in the kitchen, someone singing too loud on the patio. He catches a glimpse of you through the open door—perched on the porch bench, the setting sun’s rays on your cheeks, telling a story with your hands.
Joaquin’s heart stutters.
Just the sight of you makes him feel like it’s been an eternity. He hadn’t forgotten how beautiful you are but clearly he had let the weight of it slip away to protect himself.
You look up, like you feel him before you even see him. And when your eyes meet, something in his chest aches. That’s all it takes for everything he’s been trying to outrun to come flooding back.
How safe and understood he felt when the two of you did nothing but lay under the clouds. How warm his heart got at the sound of your laughter. How easy it was until he got into his head about being right for you.
You smile at him.
It’s not the same smile as before, but it’s not cold either. Cautious and familiar, but no less warm. Because you’re happy to see Joaquin, but now in the face of him you’re afraid everything you’ve worked for will come crumbling down.
“Hey,” you say softly, walking inside from the deck toward him with a drink in hand. Your voice is light but not performative as you try to play it cool. “Llegaste.”
He nods. “Yeah. I couldn’t—yeah.”
You don’t hesitate. You step right up to him and wrap up your arms around his middle. It’s causal, natural and despite your past, you don’t even think about the possible impacts.
The simplicity of it all hits him like a wave.
He stiffens for just a second, like he wasn’t expecting it. Like he’s forgotten what it feels like to be touched gently, without purpose or urgency. Or violence. Then his arms come up slowly, almost uncertainly, and he lets himself hold you—just enough so that it’s not awkward. Not enough for everything he wants.
One of your hands slides up his back once, rubbing tenderly. It’s a tiny gesture but he swears he could cry.
“Estas bien?” you ask, pulling back just enough to look at him.
He nods again, softer this time. “Ahora sí.”
You try not to show that his words affect you, simply giving him the best smile you can before untangling yourself from him. Gesturing for him to follow you, you make your way into the kitchen fishing out a beer and handing it to him. “Here.”
He takes it, fingers brushing yours, and his grip tightens on the bottle like it’s an anchor. “Thanks.”
Later, after a few brief hellos and introductions, you sit beside each other on the porch. He’s barely touched his beer but neither of you have noticed.
There’s easy conversation on your part, starting with how you found the house and decided it was the one you wanted. You tell him about the chaos in the kitchen earlier tonight, a spilled pitcher of sangria. About the neighbor who brought way too many folding chairs.
He barely says anything, he simply listens. Listens like he’s afraid he’ll miss something if he blinks, like he’ll wake up from a dream.
He watches the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. The way your knee bounces when you’re excited. The way you don’t flinch being this close to him, how you lean closer. You aren’t afraid to touch him, a nudge of shoulders here, a brush of his knee there when you say something funny.
It seems like it comes easy to you and god, has he missed this.
“I miss this,” he says quietly, gaze fixed on the beer bottle in his hands. Then, after a breath: “I miss… you.”
There’s several beats of silence. He doesn’t have the heart to look up at you, to see the surprise on your face.
You look at him, cheeks warm, stomach twisting with anticipation. You hadn’t expected him to say something like that when he was the one that ended things the way he did.
When you speak again your voice is quiet but firm. “Not here.”
Even then, you touch his knee—just a brush of your fingers—but it feels like a jolt. He follows you without thinking.
You lead him down the back steps, past string lights and potted herbs, to the edge of the backyard. There’s a small pond there, still and starting to glow under the emerging moon.
You’re a ways away from everyone else. It feels like you're a world away, a veil falling between you and Joaquin and the world. Everything else is muffled, distorted. It’s just the two of you.
You turn to face him, your eyes guarded. “I miss you too,” you say. “I never stopped wanting this. You were the one that…”
His chest tightens, but before he can reach for you, you add—gentle, but unwavering:
“But, I’m not doing that again. I’m not getting close just to watch you disappear when things get hard. If you want me—really want me—then you have to stay. You have to try.”
He swallows hard, the words sitting heavy between you.
You can see, nearly hear the gears turning in his head. There’s conflict, something soft and something so scared in his eyes as he lets your words sink in. You step forward then, and when your arms wrap around his shoulders, he goes completely still. There’s a breath he doesn’t take. A flicker of disbelief in his eyes. Like your touch might vanish if he moves too fast.
This time you notice.
“Què te pasa? Hmm, baby bird?” You ask tenderly and it breaks something open in him.
Slowly, shakily, he lets go of the tension. He leans in—into you—and his arms finally wrap around your waist. His hold isn’t tight, but you can feel the starved urgency in his fingertips.
His face presses into your shoulder, and the sound he makes is quiet, but wrecked. A broken exhale like it’s the first breath he’s taken in weeks.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I thought I was doing right by you. Letting you go. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
You hold him tighter, and his grip flinches like he’s not used to being held back.
“I know,” you say softly, your hand tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He shudders under your touch and your heart squeezes again. “I know, baby,” you assure him gently.
You brush your lips against his temple, and he tenses just slightly at the contact—like it overwhelms him. His breath hitches, grip tightening around your hips like he’s afraid to let go now that he’s here in your arms.
“Next time,” you murmur, fingers sliding further into his hair, “you just talk to me.”
He nods into you, arms wrapping so tight around you, holding on like this might all slip away.
You stay like that for a while. Wrapped up in each other, warm and quiet. Until the party noise fades into background hum and there’s only moonlight and the hush of the pond.
Eventually, you both sit in the grass, your shoulders brushing. He finally starts to talk to you, to tell you everything he’s endured. Why he pulled away and what plagues him now; months apart and they’re still the same thing.
He talked about the missions. The pressure. The exhaustion.
About how he didn’t know the full effect of what it was doing to him until he stepped back into your orbit and felt seen again.
Your fingers drift over his hand as he speaks. When he falters, you gently trace one of the faint scars on his knuckles. He goes completely still at the contact—like even that touch is more kindness than he’s used to.
“You have to take better care of yourself,” you say with a half-smile, nudging him gently. “Or I’m calling Sam.”
That finally earns a real laugh—small, tired, but real.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would,” you tease. “I’d guilt him into dragging your ass back here for a proper nap and a shower.”
He nudges your knee with his, smiling. You both fall quiet; it’s comfortable.The pond glows beside them. The world slows down.
And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like he’s on borrowed time.
He just feels… held. Seen and understood. Like he’s home, in a way that matters.
—
Later that night, after most of the guests have left and the house is dim and quiet, he helps you carry in the empty bottles and leftover snacks. The porch lights hum low behind them, and the kitchen smells faintly like lime and basil and whatever candle someone brought as a gift.
You’re both barefoot now, toes brushing the tile. He hands you the last bowl and leans against the counter like he doesn’t want to leave.
You sense it immediately, glancing over at him. “You okay?”
He nods. “Yeah. I just… don’t want this to end.”
A smile tugs at your mouth. You step closer, fingers brushing his wrist, and this time he leans into the touch like he needs it to breathe.
“So don’t let it,” you murmur. “Don’t push me away again.”
He swallows. “Would it be too fast if I said I want to see you tomorrow?”
You smile deepens. “Are you asking me on a date, Lieutenant?”
Joaquin grins, soft and sheepish. He finally looks like himself. “Yeah, I am.”
“Well then,” you say, stepping in and tilting your chin up, “you better kiss me goodnight properly.”
You don’t give him time to overthink it. You press your lips to his—soft and warm, lingering just enough to make his breath catch. He kisses you back like he’s still afraid he’ll mess this up, but you thread your fingers through his and holds him close.
When you pull back, he exhales shakily.
You tap your fingers lightly against his chest. “Pick me up at seven. And wear something that says ‘I’ve stopped being emotionally unavailable.’”
He throws his head back with laughter, then groans like that’s going to be a real task. “That narrows my wardrobe down to, like, one shirt.”
Gripping his shirt playfully, you pull him a little closer. “Then wear it.”
Somewhere between getting home and putting his phone on the charger, Joaquin sees the text from Sam. Seems you had followed up on your threat to tell Sam about tonight.
Sam: I heard you finally stopped being stupid.
Joaquin stares at it for a second before the typing bubble pops up again.
Sam:Bout damn time. You owe me twenty bucks. And a six-pack.
He shakes his head, smiling down at the screen. His reply is simple:
Worth it.
And when he turns off the light and sinks into bed, his heart is full.
let me know if you'd like to be on sfw joaquin torres taglist!
sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl, @blackwomanchronicles
Okay, so it's been awhile since I've visited your blog and I JUST read the fic where Steve gets Bee a drum set. It's so cute and I can totally see Bee getting damn good at them as she grows up and the flute as well. But for now it's just happy and enthusiastic noise.
Bucky would make sure she has the best instructors if she decides to keep playing. Right now it is very happy, enthusiastic noise. She thinks she sounds good—just like the musicians she sees on tv—and no one has to the heart to tell her otherwise 🥹
She is an early riser like her Papa. So some mornings they know she's awake because they can hear the loud bangs and rattles and screeches as she puts on an early morning show for Mr. Tato and his people.
"This is your fault," you grumble, snatching Bucky's pillow from under his head and putting it over yours.
He laughs. Bucky knows better than to disagree. Even though this is mostly Steve's doing, Bucky can admit he may have played a small part in all of this.
"I'll go talk to her," he reassures you, moving to the side of bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. You peak out from under the pillow just in time to catch him putting on his shirt, the blue cotton sliding down his arms. The way his tattoed back flexes under the dim glow of the nightstand lamp makes your breath hitch. He hears it. Of course he does. He glances over his shoulder and winks.
"Yeah, yeah. The last time you talked to her, you ended up in the band," you retorts, ignoring the way your cheeks are heating up. It's not your fault he looks so good. It's actually a little unfair.
Bucky laughs again. You feel the deep rumble of it when he leans over to brush a kiss on your forehead. He doesn't deny it. You both know if she decided to recruit him again, he's going to end up playing whatever instrument she puts in his hands. "Never said I was going to stop her Malyshka."
True. You roll over in bed and watch him walk stroll out. There's a brief silence. A knock on her door. Her happy "good morning Papa! You hears me playin' drums, you loves it? Here Papa, you take dis one" brings a smile to your lips. You're not shocked when you hear the clack of drumsticks. Followed by the sounds of your two favorite people making way too much too noise.
You give yourself a minute before getting up. Migjt as well see the show in person. Their matching grins when you walk in and join them are worth worth than anything in this world—even your sleep. Eh, maybe. It's close. Besides your new noise canceling headphones are on the way.
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 :)
Extremely cracky but I am cackling at the thought of Thunderbolts endcredits(/Doomsday?) Bucky and pregnant reader hanging out with other heroes and the topic falls on everyone's hero suits and someone asks reader what she thinks of Bucky's new suit and she goes "Well, does this answer your question?" and points at her belly because he absolutey knocked her up when Bucky fucked her still wearing the fit.
If you want to make it smutty it can always include a flashback. 🤷♀️
in the suit?! | bucky barnes
Summary: ^^ Request
Warning: 18+ Minors DNI | Possible Thunderbolts* Spoilers | Smut | Detailed Open Door | Dirty Talk | Innuendos | Are we still saying John Walker as a warning? | Choking | Pregnant Reader | Mild Language | Alcohol Use | Suit Kink
Word Count: 965
A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this. And getting to stare at clips of Bucky in the suit as references. Thank you. Ps-Gif has nothing to do with the one shot, but fuck.
Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes
Present:
Your post-mission debrief had somehow turned into a party—beers around a bonfire, with s’mores. Yes, someone had brought s’mores. It was Bob. You half suspected that he’d googled ‘what do friends do for fun?’ on the way back to the tower.
You were sitting on a lawn chair, mocktail one hand, the other absently rested on your stomach—the baby bump very much obvious at this point. Behind you, Bucky stood with one hand on your shoulder and his vibranium hand wrapped around a beer while he looked like he wanted to re-enter the void any time anyone got too loud.
And naturally, Yelena got loud.
“Okay, here’s the real question,” she called out, waving her beer bottle around the team like a sword. “Which one of the ‘new’ Avengers has the best suit?”
“That’s so subjective.” Ava groaned.
“Exactly my point,” Yelena replied. “Subjectively, it’s me.”
Puffing out his chest, Alexei snapped. “I will ignore this insult and remind you of this iconic design!”
“You literally squeak when you move,” Walker said.
“You squeak emotionally.” Ava scoffed, taking a swig of her own beer bottle.
Walker pointed toward Bob. “What about him? Dude’s got like, three different fits.”
Bob smiled politely, yet his hand visibly trembled. “Thanks… I’m molecularly unstable.”
Then suddenly, all eyes turned to Bucky.
Including yours.
How could they not? The matte black suit. The red star. The arms.
After a beat of silence, someone—you think it was Ava—looked at you and said: “What do you think of Barnes’ new suit?”
Bucky froze. His hand tightened against your shoulder. Slowly you lowered your mocktail, raising your brows toward Ava.
“Well, Miss Starr,” you gave your swollen stomach a gentle double tap. “Does this answer your question?”
In surprise, Yelena dropped her beer into the grass. Alexei smiled, until the realisation flashed over his eyes and he clutched his chest like he’d been shot. Bob blinked rapidly in your direction, as though he was running a diagnostics. Walker let out a bark-laugh, quickly turning it into a full wheeze.
“No. Nooo,” He shook his head, the laughter still ringing through your ears. “Are you saying—Wait—in the suit?!”
You smirked, and shrugged your shoulders slightly. “Didn’t even take the glove off.”
Bucky’s eyes widened.
Three Months Ago:
The safe house door slammed behind you. You barely crossed the entryway before Bucky had you pressed against the wall. His breath was hot, his body humming with some leftover tension from the mission.
He was still in his New Avengers suit—matte black kevlar clinging to his body like a sin, his dog tags swung with every move, and his arm plates clicked together.
You barely had time to catch a breath before his mouth crashed into yours.
“Are you going to keep the suit on?” you murmured between kisses, fingers tracing the lining of the red star embroidered into his right arm.
His teeth pulled at your bottom lip. “Are you complaining?”
You weren’t.
Instead, you desperately tugged on his belt.
He growled.
And before you knew it, your legs were around his waist, his arm braced under your thighs. His vibranium hand reached up to cup your cheek, trailing his lips over your jaw with a ragged breath.
“You’ve been staring at me in this thing all damn day,” he hissed against the shell of your ear. “Did you think I didn’t notice, babygirl?”
“Maybe–Maybe I wanted you to.”
In response, he ground his hips against you—still dressed, but the feel of him had you clenching around nothing. Bucky didn’t rush. He never did. He made you feel it. He made you feel him. And every ridge of his suit, the inches of him still layered between you.
Finally, he freed himself, and you let out a sharp gasp at your underwear being shoved aside. “Don’t hold back, sergeant.” you breathed, fingers entwining in his hair, pulling the strands.
And he didn’t.
With one hard thrust, he was buried to the hilt—dragging out a broken moan from the back of your throat. He was rough, relentless. His hips snapped into you, driving you like he was proving a point.
He let your name fall from his lips.
The suit creaked with every movement, and his gloved right hand tightened around your thigh. His grip was bruising. His left hand found your throat—firm, grounding. Just enough to make your vision blur—not enough to lose control.
“You take me so good, baby,” he panted. “Fuck—you’re so tight, can feel you everywhere.”
Unable to form words, you gasped. High-pitched, wrecked whines of: ‘Harder—’. Pushing your chest out, you felt his dog tags swing between your breasts with every thrust.
Bucky’s fingers found your clit—still gloved, the textured leather moved over your skin toward the sensitive nub—rubbing tight, delicious circles.
You screamed his name.
Your body shuddered against him, vision turning white at the edges as your orgasm washed over you. Bucky’s hips stuttered, groaning deep from his chest as he spilled into you. His forehead pressed to yours.
He didn’t let you go.
Breathing hard, you clung to him.
Present:
“So, just to confirm,” Walker continued to laugh. “Bucky Barnes, the Winter freaking Soldier, turned into a thirst trap and you said ‘yes’ without any hesitation?”
“I said ‘harder’, actually,” you corrected, taking your mocktail straw between your lips.
Bucky muttered under his breath, looking up to the sky, up to the stars. “You tried to, at least.”
Yelena collapsed into Ava’s shoulder. “I never want to see that suit again.”
“I’ll be seeing it again, tonight,” you said sweetly, standing up to make your way toward the bathroom. Patting Bucky’s chest as you pass. “Pizza first, though. I’ll need the carbs.”
Bob blinked. “Should–Should I get more s’mores?”
“Yes, Bob,” the New Avengers said in unison.
___
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Mel • 18 • 1# loki defender
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