Oka Soo I Dare To Send In A Bucky Imagine

we should all have this as our pfp on june 13th #thankschuck

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It's been a long time since I posted a Loki sketch so here we go 🥹

Charge My Card

Fandom: Marvel (Actor AU)

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x F!Reader

Summary: You see a TikTok of a woman who pays for DoorDash instead of her boyfriend and her boyfriend gets upset about because he usually pays for it. So you try the same thing with Joaquin…

A/N: Inspired by this TikTok.

You're happy that Joaquin is filming in LA because that means he doesn't need to be far from home. He spends a majority of his day filming and then comes home to you. It's all so domestic.

You thought moving in together would come with some difficulties, but Joaquin is very on top of everything. He's tidy, does chores without being told, and basically makes sure you don't have to lift a finger.

You must have done something good in your past life to end up with someone like him.

You and Joaquin are currently sitting on the couch together, scrolling through Yelp to see what you could order.

"Oh! That Korean place we went to with Kate delivers! Should we get that?"

"Oh hell yes. I've been thinking about their fried chicken for weeks!"

You nod and put in the order of food you wanted as well as the fried chicken Joaquin requested.

Joaquin gets up to grab his wallet from his work bag. He's rifling through his things until you speak up, "Okay, so it'll be here in about thirty minutes."

That's when Joaquin pauses, "Wait," he turns around to face you, "did you pay already?"

You nod, looking up from your phone, "Yeah. It'll be here in thirty minutes."

Joaquin holds up one of his credit cards, "Which card did you use?"

"Mine," you respond with a confused look.

He shakes his head, "Cancel the order."

"What? Why?"

"Because you're supposed to use my card," he reaches for your phone and pull it away from him.

"Says who?!" you ask as you slap his hand away.

"Says me! I always pay for our takeout!" You two begin to wrestle for your phone.

You can't help but laugh, "Joaquin, it's fine! I want to pay!" you try your best to keep your phone away from him.

He grunts as his arms wrap around you as he tries to grab for your phone. You continue to laugh. Throughout your relationship, Joaquin has very much always been more of the provider. He loves the idea of taking care of you, making sure you have everything you want and need.

Although you work and even pay half the rent of your shared home, he doesn't allow you to pay for anything else.

Slightly exasperated, he holds himself above you and pouts, "Baby, please cancel the order."

"No," you respond with a smirk and peck his lips, "I wanna pay every once in a while. I don't like feeling like I'm mooching off you."

He sighs and plops onto the couch beside you, "You're not mooching off me. You pay in half the rent and in your love and affection. You're smooching, not mooching"

You snort, "You're so dumb," you lightly slap his arm.

He grins at you, "You know a lot of people would love the idea of never having to pay for anything."

You shrug, "I know, I'm stubborn like that."

"Don't I know it," he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in his arms. He pats behind you for your phone and his brows furrow, "Where'd you put your phone?"

You mischievously grin at him, "In my pants."

He chuckles and smirks, "As if that would stop me," he pulls away and begins to at your jeans, causing you to squeal in laughter.

💫 For Your Consideration - Act 1 💫

actor!Bucky x fem!actress!Reader (no use of y/n, l/n, reader is not described in any great detail. I save that for the gowns 💃)

Warnings: Hollywood AU, language, internet nasties, flirty!Bucky, a little power imbalance, age-gap (Bucky is around 40, actress reader is closer to 30 or younger if you prefer 🤭)... more to be added later.

Bucky Barnes, the suave and talented leading man of the 'Winter Soldier' movie series, finds himself on the red carpet circuit during awards season with his latest film 'The Howling Commandos'. But the season takes an unexpected turn when he crosses paths with a mesmerizing newcomer - the actress who has become the talk of Tinseltown with her captivating performance in her most recent film. Sparks fly as they navigate silly season in Hollywood, with a spotlight on their every move will their chemistry ignite a real life romance?

< Prev Act | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Next Act >

SEPTEMBER 2025

You hadn't known what to expect. 

Sure, you'd done your fair share of press nights, television awards, red carpets and ceremonies, even the occasional movie premiere where (inexplicably) minor b, c and d-listers were invited.

You'd rubbed shoulders with the winners of Love Island, or the quarter finalists of The Voice, wide eyed and looking at each other like you were equally surprised to have been invited to these things.

Toronto was at a whole other level. 

You’d miraculously been recognised in a public gym class at your hotel that morning, but other than that you’d been able to blend in like the millions of other tourists. 

The studio had ‘loaned’ you the same stylist who’d handled the small flurry of media activity when you’d first been cast in the movie. Becka had been in Toronto ahead of you and had slotted into the third pillar of moral support alongside Dani and Lulu. She’d already taken Lulu with her to track down a selection of outfits to last the week, while you and Dani had been picked up to attend an opening weekend welcome lunch. 

Faces of people you’d only ever seen on TV and the big screen breezed past you both while you stayed glued to the wall.

“You should say hello to someone,” Dani muttered into her mimosa.

“If I knew anyone…” you grimaced. You scanned the room again, hoping to see someone, anyone from your movie. “They sent me here to die,” you lamented with a frown.

“Ahh, none of that,” Dani chastised, taking your hand in her own soft palm. “Look at me, this is fine. You entertain strangers all day, every day. This is just an extension of that. Now breathe, smile, relax.” 

You did as she asked.

“God, your skin looks incredible,” you marvel, “only you could get off a ten hour flight looking like that.” 

“Come on, silly. Let’s at least have a walk around the room and look like we belong here.” She tucked her hand into the bend of your elbow, and nudged you along. “That’s Sam Wilson,” she whispered under her breath, “he’s Bucky Barnes’ agent, and that’s Joaquin Torres with him.”

You looked briefly as Wilson embraced Torres in a huge hug, both of them smiling widely. Distracted, you didn’t notice Dani slip ahead of you to avoid bumping into anyone, leaving you to walk straight into the next person to cross your path.

“Oh, shit,” you hissed, barely managing to keep hold of your glass. A warm hand with a tight grip held your elbow as the collision threatened to send you to the floor.

“You should watch where you’re walking,” a familiar voice chided. 

The gruff tone of the Winter Soldier star, Bucky Barnes, was surprisingly gentle despite the harshness of his words. He’d taken a step back out of your personal space, his eyes locked on your face as he waited for you to respond.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, aghast. “I’m really so sorry.”

You stumbled back another step, his hand leaving your elbow.

His eyes narrowed, studying you. 

He seemed more curious than annoyed at your embarrassment.

You, on the other hand, turned to retreat quickly with eyes like saucers. 

Behind you, Dani had traced her steps back to find you and on seeing Bucky, gave an unintentional squeak of surprise. She clapped one hand over her mouth, the other seeking out yours. 

Her gaze darted between you and Bucky. 

He gave her a cursory glance before his eyes slid back to you, taking in the flush on your cheeks and the tension in your shoulders. He wondered absently why he found himself unable to look away.

Dani tugged lightly on your hand.

“Please, excuse me,” you breathed, your voice far braver and stronger than you’d expected it to be.

He nodded in acknowledgement but didn’t reply, watching as Dani led you away through the throng of producers, agents and PR reps. Bucky found himself still watching the space you’d previously occupied, his usually stern expression slightly softer than normal.

“Ladies fallin’ at your feet again, old man?” Sam grinned, giving Bucky’s shoulder a gentle shake.

Bucky rolled his eyes and took a long sip of his drink.

“Shut it, Wilson,” he muttered. Sam laughed, clearly enjoying Bucky’s discomfort.

“Ah, come on, Barnes,” he teased. ”Can’t handle a couple of adoring fans? It comes with the territory, you know that.”

You’d caught the tail end of the comment before the surrounding noise had filled the air.

“Oh god,” you mumbled under your breath, glancing over your shoulder as Dani dragged you through the crowd. “I just collided with Bucky Barnes.”

Dani nodded sympathetically, her hand tightening around yours.

“Don’t worry babe, this is a big place. You probably won’t see him again.”

“You think?” You asked, your voice small and tight with the embarrassment of almost falling over in front of the hottest, most famous actor in the room.

“Sure,” she smiled, taking a glass of champagne from a passing tray and replacing your empty one with the full one. “Put it out of your head.”

You nodded.

“Right. No point worrying about it.” Your eyes darted around the room, half hoping to catch another glimpse of Bucky, half hoping to avoid any further encounters. 

It wasn’t long before you found your own group of castmates, producers and studio bodies, the memory of bumping into Bucky fading into the background. You were soon caught up in the whirlwind of conversations about upcoming projects, gossip and industry news. 

The afternoon slipped away, with Dani diligently whipping out her phone to note down the various commitments and events you were being invited to. Your schedule was becoming increasingly hectic, and the thought of everything the rest of the week had in store caused a riot of nerves in your stomach.

“You should run a side hustle as my glamorous assistant,” you teased.

“Hmm, the best organised hair stylist in the industry. Curling wand in one hand, calendar in the other.” She laughed, linking her arm through yours. 

“Thank you,” you kissed her cheek softly.

“The studio would get you an assistant, you know?”

“I think I prefer you, if you’re not too busy?”

“You’re the only one I’m here for, babe. Just make sure I have enough time to do your hair.”

You grinned at her, your heart swelling with affection.

“You’re the best. No one else is stealing you away.”

“You dragged me to Toronto,” she said as if it had been a hardship, “of course no one else is stealing me!”

Relief washed over you, having her and Lulu with you was grounding and comforting. 

You made your way towards the exit, ready for a reprieve from the hectic, whirlwind of an afternoon.

The cinema was dark, filled with a growing hum of anticipation. You’d dressed down today, in jeans and a sweater, the polar opposite of awards season glam. It was a relief to be an unknown, no one paid you any mind as you slunk down into your seat and took the popcorn box from Lulu. 

Your studio had given you tickets to the Howling Commandos premiere and panel and as the opening credits rolled, you noticed Bucky Barnes slip into the theatre and take a seat next to Yelena Belova on the front row, their heads bent as they whispered to each other. 

You tore your eyes away and concentrated on the movie.

It quickly pulled you in, the dialogue, the visuals, the acting. You could feel the tension radiating from the screen.

Two hours later, tears streaked your face, the film's emotional punches had hit just right. It had been more powerful than you anticipated and you couldn’t wait to hear from the director as the lights flicked back on.

The energy in the theatre was electric as Belova, Barnes and Torres made their way to the stage, guided by a local journalist acting as the moderator. 

You paid close attention.

You were used to a surface level of media scrutiny, the local paper outside the theatre after a show, but you had a feeling that nothing could prepare you for your own up and coming premiere.

The cast of the Howling Commandos were clearly comfortable in front of such a large audience, and played off the panel's questions with ease.

They were a joy to watch.

Insightful, witty… Belova heaped praise on her starring actors and they responded in kind. 

They left you in awe. 

You'd crept forwards, onto the edge of your seat. 

“And what are you guys looking forward to seeing over the next few days?” The moderator asked curiously. 

“The Stark documentary for me,” Joaquin Torres grinned. 

“Cabaret looks so fun.” Yelena added. 

“For me, it's Cabaret and also the new John Walker movie,” Bucky said with a smirk, the audience erupted into laughter at the mention of his box office rival and Winter Soldier co-star. 

“Musical fans, huh? Think we might see you in a musical one day?”

Bucky scoffed.

“God no, no one wants to hear me sing,” he laughed. The audience vehemently disagreed, as did Yelena. 

“She's gonna put you in one,” Torres laughed, slapping Bucky on the back.

“She can try!”

“I'm gonna write it next,” she teased. 

From far up in the auditorium, you could see the tops of Bucky’s ears pink. 

Next to you, Lulu's hand reached for yours, gripping tightly and leaving crescent moon shapes on your palm. 

“He's coming to see your movie tomorrow,” she hissed. 

“Of course he's not, he's just saying that to be polite. He probably can't even go and get a coffee without getting mobbed. How's he going to sit in a movie theatre?” You fobbed her off but her words lingered in your mind. 

The panel concluded its questions, and the auditorium burst into applause. 

The cast was shepherded out of the room, fans already gathering, eager to catch a glimpse of their favourite actors.

You slipped through the crowded space, trying to stay out of the way. Lulu was ahead of you, navigating her way out of the area, and Dani stayed right behind you. 

It was highly unlikely you’d be recognised here, but you'd already begun to notice an uptick in the number of people doing a double take when they saw you, from the girl in your gym class that morning, to the barista at the coffee shop at lunchtime.

You couldn't help but notice that the thin veil of anonymity you had enjoyed was quickly slipping away. With your own movie premiere just around the corner, you knew it was only a matter of time before your face was plastered everywhere.

“Sit still please,” Lulu breathed, her face millimeters from yours and pinched in concentration as she applied false lashes to your own.

You did as she asked and tried not to look past her at the outfit Becka was steaming. The first of three, one for morning interviews, one for the premiere and one for the party your studio was hosting that night. Next to Lulu, Dani unfurled her case of equipment.

“Hair up or down?” She asked, not you though, she was asking Becka.

Becka took a moment to examine the outfits.

“Can we do up today and have it down later tonight?”

“That’s fine, I can style it loosely so it’s easy to take down this evening.”

“It’s so exciting!” Lulu giggled. She finished the lashes and stood up straight, stretching her back.

“Scary exciting,” you corrected her. “My butterflies have got butterflies.”

She switched places with Dani who squeezed your shoulder before brushing through your hair.

“Just be yourself and have fun,” she chimed in. 

Easier said than done.

You embraced the interviews, your confidence growing with each publication. It was a relief to know you’d done all you could to support your movie and to give it the hype - and the premiere - you felt it deserved.

The girls had gone ahead of you to the theatre, leaving you to walk the red carpet alone.

Your co-stars took you under their wing. 

Despite it being your face (and ass) on the billboards, there were relatively few flashes from the photographers.

“They’ll regret sleeping on this moment, love,” your charming movie love interest, Steve Rogers told you warmly from a few steps further along the carpet. 

“Doesn’t bother me in the slightest,” you smiled, “I think I prefer them not caring who I am.”

“Spoken like a true star in the making,” he moved to your side and the photographers went into a frenzy, “they’ll be fighting for your attention soon enough.”

Steve offered you his arm and you took it gratefully, leaving the red carpet behind and heading into the theatre. 

It was a bigger auditorium than the one the previous night for the Howling Commandos movie, but yours was there on a much bigger budget and with a well known director attached.

You squeezed Steve's arm, slightly hesitant to follow him, but he pulled you along and into the room.

A cheer went up through the room at the sight of you both and you scanned the crowd for a glimpse of the girls as the lights began to fade. Just as you gave up hope of spotting them, you saw Dani’s hand fly into the air and wave. You blew her a quick kiss and sat down. 

You could hear the murmurs of anticipation in the darkness, rustles of people shifting in their seats and getting comfortable. 

This was the first time you would see the finished product - the final edit of the film you’d poured your soul into, upended your entire life for. 

You were nervous at seeing yourself on screen, but there was also a thread of excitement, making your heart race. 

This was the kind of life changing event that you, and others in your circumstances, had always talked about. 

And yes, it could all be over by this time tomorrow. 

The movie could flop, and you’d go back to being one of the nuns on the Sister Act tour, or one of the Mean Girls.

Your company would welcome you back with plenty of gin and hugs, and life would go on. 

But for this night, this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you wanted to soak it all in.

As the film unravelled before you, you hardly recognised yourself on screen. 

The movie transported you, your memories of filming and rehearsals merging with the outcome you were now finally watching. 

An overwhelming sense of pride filled you.

When the screen went black and the credits rolled, the audience erupted into a deafening applause. 

It drowned out everything around you and you could barely hear the moderator call you to the stage for the panel.

As you lined up on the stage, the applause slowly died down. 

The host smiled warmly.

“Welcome, and congratulations! It seems like these guys are pretty happy with the movie!”

Cheers and shouts filled the room again. 

“Thank you so much!” Steve called out to the audience.

“We'll come to our leading lady first of all, huge experience for you, how's it feel?” She asked you excitedly.

You took a deep breath, trying to find the words to describe the mix of emotions coursing through you. It was hard to articulate something that was so difficult to explain, it all felt so alien to you. 

“Gosh, it's crazy!” You exclaimed happily. “I'm blown away by all the support - I can't thank you enough.”

The audience cheered in response to your heartfelt gratitude, the energy in the room sky high.

“Now, for those who don't know, you're an accomplished stage performer, how different was this to your usual?” The moderator asked.

You took a moment to consider the question. 

“It's definitely a different experience. Theater is live, it's raw and in the moment - no redos or do overs,” you explained, pausing for a breath.

“You say that, but is it true you sang each take live?” she queried. 

“Yeah, I didn't realise until a few takes in that I didn't have to belt it out every time,” you admitted sheepishly.

There was a murmurer of laughter through the audience. You laughed with them, your cheeks turning pink at the revelation.

“Oh, your poor voice! I can only guess how your throat must have felt after a few takes on those songs.” 

The questions progressed quickly through updating the original musical for a modern audience and the casting process before the host wrapped up with some more lighthearted queries. 

“Were there any other inspirations both you and the production team drew on aside from the movie and the stage show?” She asked. 

“Absolutely, for me in particular I watched a lot of Chicago, Sweet Charity, Burlesque… movies with incredible choreography and those instantly recognisable songs.”

“Well it certainly shows, the movie blends seamlessly into the modern era,” the host encouraged. 

“It does, I think it helps that it was already such a forward-thinking show to begin with. The themes really are timeless.” Steve added. 

“And finally, have you had a chance to see any of the movies being shopped around yet?”

“I'm seeing the Stark documentary tomorrow,” Steve offered.

“And I saw Howling Commandos yesterday,” you smiled. 

“How was it?”

“A masterpiece. I cried through the whole thing. The cast were incredible -”

“Bucky Barnes, right?” She interrupted and the audience in your theatre cheered loudly. You nodded in agreement. 

“He was… beautiful to watch. And so lucky to work with Yelena Belova, she's a visionary.”

The host thanked you and the rest of the cast, and the event security appeared from the wings, ready to prevent the audience from rushing down to the stage and mobbing the cast. 

From your vantage point, you could see Dani sitting about halfway back in the auditorium, waving enthusiastically. 

You caught her eye and waved back, the brightness of the auditorium lights now illuminating her features clearly. 

The man sitting directly in front of her seemed a little bewildered by your exchange, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and curiosity.

He appeared familiar, but the baseball cap he was wearing hid most of his face from your view. 

You found yourself squinting, trying to get a better look at him. 

The man's shoulders looked broad and toned, his frame solid. As you leaned slightly to the side to get a better angle, the man jerked his head up, noticing your curious gaze.

Bucky Barnes remained unphased and held your gaze for a moment without blinking, challenging you to make a scene by drawing attention to him. 

After what felt like an eternity, he winked, the corner of his mouth lifted into a sly smirk. 

You felt your cheeks heat up under the bright lights, and embarrassed, tore your eyes away from him, focusing your attention back on the studio PR rep who was outlining the plan for the short meet-and-greet sessions and the after-party event following the screening.

Your heart thundered in your chest, your mouth suddenly dry but your hands clammy.

It felt inevitable that you’d run into Bucky again - though hopefully figuratively rather than literally - the Hollywood press was in a frenzy, hyping up the impact that both movies would have on the upcoming awards season.

Anticipation coiled and twisted in your stomach at the thought of seeing him again, and the very real possibility of talking to him. You’d be lying if you said the notion didn’t exhilarate you.

Just Another Typical Day

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: It's just another typical day living and working with the Thunderbolts* and also dating Bucky Barnes.

WARNING: THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT!

"Wakey wakey! Time to start the day!" Alexei enters your shared room with Bucky at the New Avengers Tower. His loud Russian accent echoing throughout the room, "Up and at 'em, as you Americans like to say, eh?" The Red Guardian leaves as quick as he comes in.

You pull the blankets over you and Bucky and curl into his side, "I thought he'd tire of that by now," you grumble, nuzzling your face into his neck.

Bucky sleepily chuckles, "Same, we greatly underestimated him."

"Yup," you lean in to kiss him, but there's a knock at the door this time and you hear Yelena say, "You two better come out soon. You know how Alexei gets when it comes to breakfast."

Bucky groans, "Maybe I should've kept my place in Brooklyn."

"Yeah, maybe," you giggle and kick off the blanket and sheets. You and Bucky made sure to start sleeping with clothes on after Alexei had barged into your room while you two were naked far too many times.

You two quickly dress and step out into the hall, the same time Bob steps out of his room. You bump shoulders with him, "Mornin', Robby."

He shyly smiles and nods, "Y/N, Bucky. Morning." Despite knowing and living with the guy for a little over a year, he's still very shy with you and the rest of the New Avengers.

You all meet in the kitchen where everyone is spread out doing their own task of cooking breakfast.

Today, John is at the stove cooking the bacon, Ava is making omelets, Bob and Yelena are working together to make French toast.

"Just in time! Bucky and Y/N, you'll cut the fruit for the fruit salad!" Alexei gestures to the section on the large kitchen island where an array of fruits are spread out.

Alexei considers breakfast and dinner time as family time. Therefore, he makes sure everyone cooks and eats together like a family. Everyone except for him because, despite his good intentions, he's not very good at cooking. Therefore, the Red Guardian sits back and lets everyone else do the work while he scrolls on his phone.

You and Bucky stand beside each other, cutting your respective fruits and tossing them into the large bowl. Bucky hums to the music softly playing in the background and you sway to the music.

You also hear Ava and John arguing at the stove, "I just don't understand how you don't like scrambled eggs?" Ava says in disbelief.

"I just don't like the texture!"

"Most people usually say that about sunny side eggs."

"Well I'm not most people!"

You tune them out because arguments and bantering is very typical with this group. You weren't there when the group was first formed, but you take everyone's word for it when they say that they all tried to kill each other in the beginning.

Honestly sometimes it still seems like they're trying to kill each other.

You clear your throat and speak up, "So, John, you excited for visitation in a few days?"

John's wife, Olivia, had filed for divorce and got full custody of their son. Bucky smirks at you, you often played mediator when members of the group began to argue.

John clears his throat, "Yeah. I'm meeting them at the park again. He-He's getting used to me again, which is nice."

You nod, "One step at a time. Just gotta continue to show that you still love and care for him. You got this."

"Thanks," John murmurs.

"Dang it," you hear Bob say and you look to the other side of the kitchen island. He has egg all over his hand.

Yelena chuckles, "It's okay. At least you got it in the bowl this time."

"You good, Robby?" you ask him with a smile.

Bob sighs, "I've been watching a lot of cooking shows recently so I wanted to try cracking an egg with one hand."

You chuckle, "Not everyone gets it on the first try. Bucky sucks at cracking eggs. Gets shell bits in 'em every single time." You look at your boyfriend with a teasing smirk.

Bucky groans, "Must you always-"

"Yes, because it's funny and adorable," you kiss his cheek and it makes Yelena gag.

"You two are cute and disgusting. I hate you guys."

You throw her a wink, "Love you too, Lena."

The rest of breakfast prep continues with more banter and a few burnt bacon strips, but, overall, a success.

Everything is plated on the table that you're all sat around. Bucky serves you your food first then grabs his own food. You all eat and chat with each other, enjoying the normal morning you have before the business of work and saving the day hits you all.

You look around the table with a grateful gleam in your eyes. You're happy you joined this band of misfits turned heroes.

(A/N: AVENGERS TOWER FICS ARE SOOOOO BACK!)

shall I? SHALL. I.

All American All-Star

Summary : Falling for the club’s American striker, Bucky Barnes, was never part of the plan— especially since your father happens to own the club.

Pairing : Football player!Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Football/soccer au. Bucky plays in a Premier League Club. Lots and lots of sexual tension, sexual themes and references, mentions of injury, FLUFF! You are a statistical analyst for the club, cursing. Bucky is in his early thirties, and your age is never specified (though I wrote her around mid-20s in mind.)

Word Count : 16.6k

Notes : Hi all! This fic completely self indulgent. Idk if y'all noticed but I'm currently in my forbidden romance writing phase so please allow me to sweat this out before latching on to my next trope obsession. Also, putting a bunch of Marvel Comics Characters in here was so fun. Enjoy!

James Buchanan Barnes was a curiosity.

An American—already an anomaly in the top tiers of European football—who had spent the bulk of his career bouncing between MLS clubs before making a surprise leap to English football in his early thirties. The media called him a late bloomer. A gamble. Some pundits questioned why any top flight club would take a risk on an aging striker with no prior experience in the Champions League.

Your father, the owner of one of the biggest clubs in Europe, called him an investment. And you were the one who found him.

As a statistical data analyst for your father’s club, your job was simple in theory but far more complicated in execution. You spent your days with the coaching staff analysing the numbers, predicting patterns, helping scouts identify potential transfers, and finding ways to improve the existing squad. You didn’t deal in gut feelings or media hype. You dealt in cold, hard data.

Before the season started, you’d gone through dozens of scouting reports, match footage, and advanced performance analytics when Barnes’ name kept appearing over and over again. It didn’t make sense at first— no media outlet had flagged him as extraordinary, no clubs mentioned him as a top target. And yet… the numbers told a different story.

His expected goals were absurdly high, suggesting he was consistently getting into dangerous positions but lacked the right system or teammates to convert his chances. His pressing stats were through the roof, putting him in the top percentile of forwards worldwide. His passing accuracy rivaled some of the best midfielders in Europe, which was especially great for a team begging for a versatile forward.

Besides, his fitness levels were impeccable. You saw the footage of Bucky playing full matches week in and week out, covering more ground than almost anyone in his league and rarely ever needing to get substituted out. And yet, no one saw him as someone out of the ordinary.

See, the problem wasn’t Bucky— it was the league.

The MLS, for all its growth, wasn’t built for a player like him. The tactical setups were different, the pressing structures not suited to how intense he could be at times. He thrived in high-intensity situations, in quick transitions, in teams that played with a high line and aggression. The numbers suggested that with the right system—a system like your club’s—he could finally convert on his numbers.

You took the data to your father. You built the case. You made the argument that Bucky Barnes wasn’t a gamble— he was an opportunity.

And he listened. He signed him.

July 9th — The Meeting

The first time you met Bucky Barnes in person, he was standing in the middle of the training ground, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looking around like he was still adjusting to the fact that he was playing the top flight in European football. You could probably guess that he had been dreaming of this for years— most Americans in the sport did.

He was taller than you expected. Broader than most strikers. If you tilted your head a little, he looked more like a soldier than a footballer. His brown hair spilled under his ears, jaw dusted with scruff, and the way he stood made it clear he wasn’t here to waste time.

You didn’t let yourself stare. Not for long, anyway.

“Barnes.” Your club’s manager, Abraham Erskine, was older, a German veteran with a kind face and the mind of a genius. He extended a hand. “Welcome.”

Bucky dropped his bag and shook it. “Happy to be here, Coach.”

Typical American, calling everyone coach. To be fair, Erskine’s gotten used to the English lads like Brian Braddock in the club calling him gaffer, so this might be a welcome change.

“This is Alexei Shostakov, the assistant manager,” Erskine continued, gesturing to the towering Russian beside him. He looked intimidating, but those who knew him understood he had a soft spot for hard working players— he even had two daughters playing in Spain.

“Coach,” Bucky said again, nodding.

“And this,” Erskine gestured to the man standing off to the side with his arms crossed, “is our fitness trainer, Sam Wilson. Another American, so at least you won’t feel too out of place.”

Sam stepped forward, grinning. “You got lucky, man. They bring in a lot of South Americans who hate the weather, but a New Yorker? You’re gonna fit right in.”

Bucky smirked. “Good to know, Coach.”

That made Sam laugh. “You can just call me Sam.”

“Noted, Coach.”

The group chuckled, but you stayed quiet, watching Bucky carefully. He hadn’t looked your way yet— not properly. You wondered if he even knew who you were.

“And finally,” Erskine turned to you, “our lead data analyst.” He didn’t mention your last name, but he didn’t have to. Everyone in the club knew who you were— partly because you’re the owner’s daughter.

Bucky’s eyes landed on you. “So you’re the one who got me here.”

You lifted your chin, “No,” you insisted. “Your numbers did that.”

He hummed in approval. 

“Guess that means I owe you one,” Bucky said, shifting his bag over his shoulder. Then, he winked. Heat curled in your stomach, but you kept your expression neutral. You weren’t about to be thrown off by another cocky footballer.

“You can pay me back by scoring goals,” you replied.

He grinned. “Deal.”

And just like that, you had the feeling that Bucky Barnes was going to be a problem for you.

July 10th — The Signing

He would be officially signed the next day. 

The press conference room was packed. You counted at least 30 reporters and twice as many cameras, all flashing lights— everything you expected when your club unveiled a major signing. But when your father told Bucky he would be the one sitting next to him, he had shook his head. “No offense, sir, but I think the person who got me here should be up there with me.”

Which was how you ended up here, seated beside him, a club-branded microphone in front of you while the media buzzed like hornets.

Bucky looked relaxed. He had done this before— press conferences, interviews, the media circus— nothing was new to him. He sat with commanding confidence, hands clasped on the table, a charming smile on his frustratingly beautiful face. 

You, on the other hand, weren’t used to this. You dealt in numbers, statistics, strategy—not public scrutiny. Your father had warned you the press might have questions. Some about Bucky. Some about you.

“James,” one of the reporters started, leaning forward, “you’re thirty-two years old, making your first jump into top-tier European football. Some would say that’s past your prime—what do you say to critics who think this club is taking a gamble on you?”

Bucky didn’t even blink. “If I was worried about what critics said, I wouldn’t be here.” A small chuckle rippled through the room, but his expression remained calm. “Some players peak at 20, some at 30. I know what I can do. The coaching staff knows what I can do. She—” he looked to you, “—knows what I can do. And in a few weeks, everyone else will know too.”

He had probably been answering some version of that question for months now.

Then, the attention turned to you.

“And for you,” another reporter said, shifting their focus, “there’s been a lot of talk about your role in this signing. You’re one of the youngest analysts in the sport. But more notably, you’re the club owner’s daughter. There are some who say this opportunity—this job—wouldn’t be yours if it weren’t for your last name.”

Your heartbeat was beating out of your chest, but you kept your expression neutral. “I would say,” you replied, “that my work speaks for itself.”

The reporter raised an eyebrow, clearly fishing for a reaction. “Still, nepotism is a fair concern, isn’t it?”

Before you could answer, Bucky leaned forward, casually resting an elbow on the table. “Let me ask you this,” he said, tilting his head. “How many analysts do you think flagged me as a top signing last year?”

The room was silent.

Bucky smiled, almost smug. “None. Except her.” He jerked his chin toward you. “The scouting reports didn’t call me extraordinary. The media didn’t put me on any ‘best transfer’ lists. But she ran the numbers, she saw something no one else did, and now I’m sitting here, signing with one of the biggest clubs in the world.”

He turned to you again before he looked back at the reporters. “So, I don’t know about you,” he said easily, “but I’d say she earned her seat at this table.”

The room buzzed. You weren’t sure whether you wanted to thank him or kick him under the table. Yes, he had answered for you, but he had also defended you. Publicly.

And the way he was looking at you now, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth?

He was going to be your biggest distraction.

—

After the press conference, you needed a moment. You weren’t used to the attention, but you answered as best you could about what you saw in Bucky’s playing style, on his game intelligence. 

After, you stayed behind, letting the media shuffle out while Bucky handled the rest of the pleasantries. You weren’t sure why or how you ended up in the first team changing room—perhaps you needed somewhere empty and quiet. A place to breathe. Since it wasn’t a match day, it was practically abandoned. Apparently, you weren’t the only one who needed a moment.

Bucky was there, leaning against a wall, hands in the pockets of his new training kit. He looked at you as you stepped inside, and for the first time since you’d met him, he wasn’t playing to a crowd. No arrogant smirk. No practiced charm. Just Bucky Barnes, standing in a place that hasn’t felt like home yet.

You hesitated, then cleared your throat. “I just wanted to say… thank you.”

His brows lifted slightly. “For what?”

You gave him a seriously? look. “You know for what.”

A smile ghosted across his lips again. “Figured someone had to say it.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I know,” he said easily. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

He wasn’t just some flashy signing. He wasn’t just numbers on a spreadsheet. He was someone who knew what it was like to be underestimated, to be doubted. You had found him because of the data, but now, standing here, you realised, he understood you in a way the numbers never could.

Bucky took a step closer, his voice quieter now. “They’re always gonna have something to say. About me. About you.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean they’re right.”

Your chest tightened. You held his stare for a moment before nodding. “Guess we’ll just have to prove them wrong.”

August 10th — Pre-Season friendly

Bucky had been with the club for a month now. Training had been intense, the pressure relentless, but he was handling it—mostly. 

Pre-season was always a mixed bag. Some teams used it to experiment, to test tactics, to let their new signings settle in. Others took it more seriously, wanting to build momentum before the real game. Your club had a bit of both— Erskine was meticulous, and Alexei, well, he just wanted to win every match, no matter the stakes.

Which was why the 3-0 pre-season loss to Ajax stung.

The squad had been sluggish, the chemistry wasn't there yet, and… Bucky had struggled. He wasn’t himself. His movements were a second too slow, his pressing wasn’t as aggressive, and when he did get into good positions, he couldn’t finish them. It was a team issue as much as an individual one, but Bucky saw it as a personal failure.

So when the final whistle blew and the players trudged into the tunnel, heads down, you knew something was going to give.

After all, the assistant manager wasn’t one to sugarcoat things, and when the team walked off the pitch, Alexei let Bucky have it.

The shouting started in the dressing room, but the walls were thin enough that you heard it from the hallway. Alexei’s booming voice wasn’t hard to miss.

“You are too slow in transition! You hesitate—this is not MLS, Barnes!”

“I know that.”

“Then act like it!”

Soon, they were yelling over each other. When you finally stepped inside, you found Bucky and Alexei squared up, the rest of the squad caught between wanting to intervene and knowing better.

“Americans,” Alexei muttered, exasperated, before pointing at you. “You deal with him.”

Then he was gone.

The room was quiet. No one wanted to be here any longer than they had to be, least of all Bucky.

“Bucky…” you started, quieter now.

He let out a deep breath, running a hand through his damp hair, sweat still clinging to him from the match. He turned, forcing a small smile for you. “I… I need time. I’ll see you at training tomorrow, yeah?”

You nodded, though you weren’t convinced.

August 11th — Training Center

The next day, Bucky was pushing himself too hard.

You saw it before training even started— he was the first one out, running sprints alone while you and the rest of the coaching staff set up. He trained with the squad, but even after, when most of the team had made their way back into the facility, he stayed to do more drills, shooting practice, more sprints. And it wasn’t helping. He was overcompensating, trying to force his body to match the pace of his mind. 

You sighed, tucking your tablet under your arm.

“Wagner,” you said. You had been working with the keeper on the sidelines for the last fifteen minutes, showing him how he could make long passes more accurate. “Think about what I said. We’ll go over more footage tomorrow.”

Kurt Wagner nodded, and you turned on your heel, walking straight for Bucky, catching him before he could disappear again.

“My office,” you said firmly.

He wiped his face with the hem of his training top, squinting at you in the afternoon sun. “What?”

“Now, Barnes.”

—

Your office wasn’t anything special, just a private space tucked into the coaching room so you could work numbers without any distractions, but it was yours. Bucky stepped inside hesitantly, like he didn’t quite belong here, then leaned against the desk as you pulled up the match against Ajax on your screen. 

You didn’t say anything at first. Just loaded up the footage, clipped the moments you needed, and let him watch.

His arms crossed over his chest as he took the moments where he pressed well, the chances he did create, the runs he made that were the right decision— even if he struggled to finish. Then you pulled up the heat map, the positioning data, the sequences where he got lost in transition.

"You did good," you said simply.

Bucky snorted. “We lost 3-0.”

“Yes, but you did good,” you repeated, clicking through several paused screenshots of his movements on the pitch. “Look here. Your pressing is still in the top percentile. You forced three turnovers in dangerous areas. That’s good.”

You clicked again.

“This run?” You gestured. “This was perfect. If the midfield had spotted it, you would’ve been through on goal. You were making the right movements.”

Another screenshot.

“This, though,” you pointed at a moment in the 70th minute, “this is where you need to improve. You hesitated. You had a second to get the job done, but you tried to take the extra touch.”

Bucky sighed, leaning back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s on me.” 

“Listen,” you said. “You’re not playing bad, Bucky. You’re adjusting. This is a different pace, different tactics, different system. You’re learning.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose. “Alexei doesn’t think so.”

“Alexei wants perfection,” you argued. “He yells at everyone. Even Helmut Zemo.”

Bucky blinked. Zemo? The ice-cold, disciplined defender hailed as one of the best in the world? The same guy he was still struggling to get along with? That earned a small smile out of him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Nearly murdered him last season.”

Bucky huffed, shaking his head. “I just… I don’t want to be a mistake.”

You shook your head. "You’re not."

August 17th — Premier League, Matchday 1

It wasn’t long before the season started, and even Bucky was surprised that he made it in the first team. But making it meant Erskine had believed in him— he wasn’t going to disappoint.

The first team they played was Liverpool. Bucky has heard a lot about Anfield’s ruthless atmosphere, but this was way more intense than he could have possibly imagined. The stadium was a sea of red and the team was a far more experienced side than he was used to. 

See, Bucky had played in big matches before, but nothing like this. The intensity, the tempo, was on another level entirely.

He kept his head, though. He remembered what you told him. No extra touches. Make quicker decisions.

He remembered what Erskine drilled into the team. Exploit the space behind their fullbacks. Don’t hesitate.

So when a counterattack sparked in the 68th minute, when Wagner’s long pass reached Brian Braddock on the right flank, he spotted Bucky darting between the center-backs.

They were currently 1-0 down, but Bucky made sure the pressure didn’t get to him. He made his run.

Braddock’s pass was perfect, curling into Bucky’s path. The defender was closing in, but Bucky took one clean touch with his left, then struck with his right.

Precise. Back of the net.

1-1.

The away section erupted.

Bucky barely had time to register before his teammates crashed into him, Braddock shouting in his ear, “Fucking told you, mate!”

He even felt Zemo’s hand on his back.

But he barely heard the praise. In his mind, all he could think about was you—the analysis, the breakdown, the way you had pointed out exactly where he needed to improve. And he had.

It ended 1-1, but it was a good start. At the very least, he had made a statement. Bucky Barnes had arrived in the Premier League.

—

The dressing room was still crowded when Bucky found Erskine and your father. They weren’t disappointed, but they weren’t exactly jumping with glee, either.

“I want private sessions with her,” Bucky said, still catching his breath.

Erskine frowned. “Who?”

Bucky said your name. 

Your father raised a brow. “She works with everyone.”

“I know,” Bucky said. “But she— she pulled me aside last week and it helped. If you let me have just an hour with her the day after every match, I could— I will adjust faster.”

Your father exchanged a glance with Erskine. The German manager stroked his chin, considering his suggestion.

“It’s an unusual request,” Erskine admitted.

“I just scored, didn’t I?” Bucky said, dead serious.

That made them both think.

Your father exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Fine,” he said. “I'll add it to her schedule.”

—

When you got back to your apartment, you stared at your calendar, lips pressed together as you read the update.

Post-Match Analysis — Private Session with Barnes

The day after every match.

August 18th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis 

You weren’t sure what you were expecting when Bucky walked into your office after training, still fresh from the adrenaline of Alexei's harsh training regiment. His hair was damp from a shower, his training kit swapped for a plain hoodie and sweats.

You, on the other hand, were still buzzing from the past two meetings. 

Post-match analysis was already part of your routine. You did one with the whole team earlier today, and you just got off the coaching staff meeting. Now, you had to do it one-on-one with him. Alone.

You gestured to the chair beside your desk as he sat down, his blue eyes darting to your monitor. You already had the footage pulled up.

“Alright,” you started, keeping it professional. “Let’s start with the good.”

You clicked the play button, and the clip of his goal played on the screen. The moment the ball left his foot. The clean strike, the ripple of the net. Bucky watched it in silence.

“You saw the space,” you narrated, “You didn’t hesitate. One touch, then the shot. Perfect.”

Bucky hummed, his fingers tapping against his knee. “That’s because of what you said,” he admitted.

You blinked. “What?”

“Last week. After Ajax.” His eyes met your as he leaned forward, “You told me what to do.”

You cleared your throat. “Well, you listened.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he just shrugged. 

You shook your head and turned back to the screen, pulling up a different clip.

“Now, let’s talk about where you can improve.”

Bucky leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he focused in.

“This movement in the 32nd minute,” you said, slowing down the footage. “You were pressing well, but you ran too early here—” you paused the clip, circling an area on the screen, “—which left space behind you. Alexander-Arnold nearly exploited it.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “Shit. Yeah, I see it.”

You nodded, pulling up another clip. “And here, in the second half—you almost made the right run, but you checked over your shoulder for too long. It slowed you down.”

Bucky leaned closer, studying the footage. “So what do I do?”

You tapped a few buttons, overlaying a heat map of his movements. “The system we play—Erskine wants quick transitions. You can’t second-guess yourself. If you commit to a run, commit fully. Trust your teammates.”

Bucky nodded.

You tilted your head. “Why did you hesitate?”

He hesitated, tilting his head. “I—” He exhaled. “This league… I’m... I’m not used to people playing at my speed.”

“That’s normal,” you assured him. The Premier League had a much faster tempo than the MLS, after all. And that was exactly why he fit in here. “But you’re seeing the right plays. That’s half the battle.”

You pulled up another set of stats, showing him his passing accuracy, his pressing intensity, his shot conversion rate. “You weren’t perfect,” you said. “But you were effective.”

Bucky let out a deep breath, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

“Feels good,” he admitted. “Seeing it like this.”

“That’s the point,” you said.

After that, you could’ve sworn he looked at you a little too fondly.

August 25th — Premier League, Match day 2

You knew Arsenal would be tough. They had won their first game against a newly promoted team 5-0, and they looked formidable. Still, it was Bucky’s first game at home, and the crowd welcomed him and the other new signings like long-lost heroes— with banners raised and voices roaring. 

Then the match started.

Arsenal suffocated your midfield. The first goal came early—an incisive pass splitting your defense followed by a clean finish. You saw your defender, Lin Lie’s, frustration as he failed to get the ball. A goal for arsenal. 

1-0.

Then, in the 54th minute, Bucky found a pocket of space. He did a quick turn, a perfectly weighted through ball, and Joaquin Torres, another new signing many people saw as a Central American Wonderkid, took one touch, then another, before slotting it past the keeper. 

1-1. 

Then, disaster happened. Lin lunged in late on Arsenal’s striker inside the box. The whistle blew. There was no hesitation from the referee— it was a penalty. The keeper, Wagner, dove the wrong way.

2-1 to Arsenal.

Bucky nearly scored a goal in stoppage time, but the final whistle blew after it was saved, and that was that.

A loss.

As you walked down the tunnel, Lin Lie was already apologising, Bucky was staring at the ground. The team looked exhausted. 

Your work began tomorrow.

August 26th — Training Centre, Post-match Analysis

During the team meeting, you stood at the front of the room. The players were seated in front of you, some paying attention, others looking at the floor. 

"You all know why we’re here," you began, clicking the remote. The screen behind you showed the stats. "We had 34% possession. Arsenal completed 542 passes to our 287. They had 16 shots. We had 4. That’s not good enough."

You saw a few heads sinking— Bucky, Lin, and Wagner. Alexei was the first to speak after you. "We looked soft," he said, arms crossed. "We let them play their football. No aggression, no bite." 

Erskine took a different approach. "Structurally, our press was broken. Too many gaps. Arsenal exploited space between the lines." He pointed to the screen, where red circles highlighted defensive breakdowns. "If we don’t fix this, we’ll keep conceding."

You saw a few nods, but no one spoke. 

"Bucky," you said, turning to him. "You created and assisted our only goal, but you had six touches in the first half. Six. We didn’t get you enough of the ball."

He nodded slightly.

"Joaquin, you did well in moments, but you completed 64% of your passes. That has to improve. Lin…" You paused, seeing his jaw tighten. "The penalty was bad, but that wasn’t the only issue. You lost five duels in our defensive third."

He tilted his head, mouthing sorry. 

"Let’s fix it, then.” Erskine clapped his hands and started the training day. 

—

After shooting drills were done, Bucky had his one-on-one session with you. 

He was already in your office as you closed the door behind you, leaning against your desk.

"You know I can do more," he said before you could even speak.

"I do," you replied. "But you need the ball to do it. And right now, we’re not finding you in the right spaces."

Bucky took a deep breath. "We’re too slow in transition."

"Agreed. But you also need to demand it. You were too passive early on. We need you dictating play, not waiting for it to come to you."

He nodded. "I’ll work on it."

You could tell he hated losing. 

"Listen, you did well, all things considered," you said finally. "But you want to turn stats into results? Stop waiting for permission."

"I won't,” he promised.

September 1st — Premier League, Matchday 3

Abraham Erskine called this match the test. 

Newcastle won both their opening games. They came in confident, expecting to beat you the way Arsenal had. But today, you felt something different in the dressing room. The boys were more focused. They were hungry. 

And when the game started, you saw it.

The press was higher. The midfield was more coordinated. The movement was better. Bucky was everywhere, demanding the ball, dictating the rhythm. In the 28th minute, he made the difference. Torres crossed the ball to him in, and he managed to kick it in the bottom right corner with a left foot. 

1-0.

The stadium erupted.

The game was far from over, though. Newcastle tried counterattacking, tried to break through. Lin Lie, in a desperate attempt to redeem himself, put in the game of his life, and Zemo was a great help in the backline, too. And then, in the 78th minute, Pietro Maximoff, your box-to-box midfielder, latched onto a loose ball at the edge of the box and buried it. 2-0. Bucky tackled him in celebration. 

The final whistle blew. Your first home win of the season. Bucky’s first home win.

September 2nd — Training Center, post-match analysis

You weren’t surprised when Bucky was the first one in the building the next morning. Of course he was. Through the glass wall of the training room, you spotted him stretching, smiling like a kid who just got away with stealing sweets from a candy shop.

Later during your one-on-one session, he was grinning ear to ear the whole time. 

"You see that goal?" he asked immediately, pointing to the screen. "Perfect finish, huh?" 

You shrugged, trying not to stroke his ego. "It was decent." 

He let out a too-dramatic gasp, stepping closer. "Decent? Decent? I’m hurt, coach." 

"Stop calling me coach," you said, then held up your tablet. "You scored, yes. But you also lost four 1v1s."

His smile didn’t falter. Not even a little. “Mmm. And who won us the game?”

“You and Pietro,” you sighed.

“Me and Pietro!” He echoed.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t find it in you to be annoyed. After all, you knew he was joking around. He was still listening— you could almost see the gears in his head working, putting your suggestions in the back catalogue as he pretended to be smug and arrogant. “You’re unbearable when you win.”

“Oh, you love it.” His voice dipped dangerously low, his hand landing on your waist as he leaned in slightly.

Your brain short-circuited. That was new.

He must’ve realised it at the same time, because he immediately yanked his hand back. “Shit—I'm sorry— wait. I— that was inappropriate.”

“N-no,” you said, your voice coming out way too gentle to be fully professional. “It’s okay. You… can do that.”

Oh.

His eyes studied you, clearly shocked. Then, carefully he put his hand back, fingers splaying lightly against your waist.

Before you could even process how natural it felt—

“Ahem.”

You both snapped your heads toward the door.

Sam, ever the disciplined fitness coach, stood there, arms crossed with his brows raised. "Buck. I’m starting gym drills soon."

Bucky stepped back, his hands lingering just a little longer than necessary before he finally pulled away.

—

The team drills had gone well. Spirits were high after the win, and unsurprisingly, Bucky and Pietro had been at the center of it— running faster than anyone, joking around, even showing off a little. Pietro had even jokingly called him old man once or twice, and he responded with a lighthearted scowl.

Now, as the squad made their way to the cafeteria, Bucky grabbed his water bottle by the edge of the gym, where Sam was sitting on a bench, watching him with an annoying smirk.

"Man, you are so screwed," Sam said casually, taking a sip of his own drink.

Bucky could only blink, feigning innocence. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Sam let out a laugh. "Oh, don’t play dumb. You were all over her."

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. "I plead the fifth."

“First, that’s not how it works around here… I think.” He chuckled. "Second, I saw where your hand was.”

Bucky nearly choked on his water. "That was—okay, it was barely a touch. I was just—”

"Flirting," Sam finished for him. 

Bucky refused to look at him, struggling to push down the heat creeping up your neck. Sam grinned. "You do remember she’s the owner’s daughter, right? You know, the guy who signs our checks?"

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, fingers nervously tapping on his drink. "I know.”

Sam raised a brow before nudging him. "Relax, man. I’m just messing with you,” he said. “Kinda nice having another American around. Just don’t want you to get fired before we can plan Thanksgiving, alright?”

“I’m not getting fired,” Bucky insisted, shaking his head. "Because nothing’s happening."

Sam lifted his hands in surrender. "Sure.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. "You don’t believe me."

"Not even a little bit."

Bucky sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam grinned, patting him on the back. "See you tomorrow, loverboy."

Bucky groaned. He was never going to hear the end of this.

September 17th — Training Center, post-match analysis, the day after Champions league Match Day 1

Even after coming out of a decisive 3-0 victory in the biggest stage of Bucky’s life so far, he showed up early again, already watching footage when you arrived. He wasn’t just there to train— he wanted to learn.

"You ever take a break Barnes?" you teased, setting your tablet down.

"Not when I could be getting better," he replied, eyes glued to the screen. "Look at this—my positioning here is a step too wide, right?"

You blinked. "Uh… yes."

"See?” He grinned. “I’m learning."

You were impressed. He wasn’t just playing on instinct anymore. He was analysing, adapting. But of course, that didn’t mean he stopped being… him. He was confident and annoyingly smug in the most adorable way, and over the last couple of weeks, he'd become more… flirty. Not that you were complaining.

"You like working with me, don’t you?" he said later on in that session, leaning closely as you swiped through stats on your screen.

You ignored the way your heart beat faster. "I like coaching players who listen."

December 27th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis the day after Premier league Match Day 18

Another day, another deep dive into his game. 

Bucky had been here for almost half a season now, and he was settling in the squad well. Even Zemo, who rarely had a nice word for anyone, was warming up to him.

He had fourteen goals in fifteen matches, so yeah, he was making a mark on the league, especially for a late bloomer. Sure, there had been a few tough losses, an early cup exit, but overall, he was proving to be a hell of a signing. Even Alexei had begrudgingly admitted Bucky was becoming a key asset to the club.

Yesterday’s game had been tough, though. 

Pietro went down and got injured in the first half, forcing Bucky to shift into the central attacking midfielder role while the untested Brazilian striker, Roberto Da Costa, took the lead up front. It wasn’t Bucky’s usual position, but he made it work. Mostly. 

A 2-2 draw wasn’t the worst outcome, but today’s one-to-one session was all about analysing his game in his new role.

"You hesitated here," you pointed at the screen, freezing the frame right before his decision. "If you release the pass earlier, you create a better chance for Da Costa."

Bucky hummed, arms crossing. "Or… I fake the pass, fish the defender out, and cross it for the kid to finish."

Your brows lifted, admittedly impressed. "That… would work too."

His smile was charming, and almost annoying. "C’mon, give me some credit. I’ve got a brain and good looks."

You huffed and chuckled. "Debatable."

He turned to face you, leaning in just a little. "You sure about that?" he teased. "Because if I didn’t know better, I’d say you spend a lot of time watching me."

You scoffed, arms folding over your chest. "It’s my job."

“Mmm.” He tilted his head, studying you. “Do you only watch the numbers?”

You swallowed hard. Bucky leaned in. “Or do you watch me?”

February 16th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis the day after Premier league Match Day 25

The day after a brutal, hard-fought 4-3 win against Aston Villa, you barely had time to set your tablet down before Bucky walked into your office with two coffee cups in hand.

"You looked like you needed this," Bucky said, plopping down into the chair next to you, "Thought you were gonna pass out mid-strategy meeting."

You arched an eyebrow but accepted the coffee anyway. "So you were watching me instead of paying attention to Erskine?"

Bucky only shrugged.

You set the cup aside before clicking on the monitor. "Alright, let’s start."

He groaned. "Already? No small talk? No ‘thanks for the coffee, Bucky, you’re the best’?"

"You got a red card in the 81st minute," you pointed out, deadpanned. 

Bucky snorted, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. "That was bullshit, and you know it. The guy dived!"

"Uh-huh," you clicked your pen, pulling up his stats. "Still, a second yellow for dissent? Really?”

"He flopped like a fish and got rewarded for it," he grumbled. "What was I supposed to do, clap for him?"

"Yes. Or, hear me out—shut up and walk away."

Bucky huffed, but you could tell he knew you were right. He knew he made a mistake— a mistake that would lead him to missing the next match. "How bad do my numbers look?"

You pulled up his passing charts. "Not bad at all, actually,” you hummed, “89% completion, seven progressive passes, four key passes. No goals or assists, but you helped control possession."

His lips curled into a small smile. "Sounds like a solid game."

"Until the red card."

He groaned again, rubbing his fingers on his forehead. "You're never letting this go, are you?"

"Absolutely not,” you shook your head. “I thought you knew better than to swear at the ref."

"That was barely swearing."

"You called him a—" You checked your notes, suppressing a laugh. "—‘blind fucker with a god complex.’"

Bucky sighed. "Okay,” he admitted defeat. “Maybe I could’ve phrased it better."

You shook your head, scrolling through the stats. "Control your temper, Barnes."

A lazy grin formed on his face. "You just wanna give me a hard time, don't you?"

You mirrored his smile. "You make it so easy."

"You know," he said, leaning in slightly. "I love it when you scold me. Keeps me in line."

You tilted your head, eyes looking down to his mouth before you met his eyes again. "Bet you’d really thrive under a little extra discipline," You murmured, then continued, "Maybe behind closed doors, too, hm?”

Bucky froze, his pupils blown wide open. "Are you offering?"

You took another sip of your coffee, trying to look entirely unfazed. "Let’s see how the season ends first, shall we?"

Then, before he could respond, you spun your monitor back around and pulled up his heat maps. "Now, let’s talk about your positioning."

He blinked. You had never seen James Buchanan Barnes look so utterly shocked before.

He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. "Right. Positioning."

You smiled to yourself. That shut him up.

May 7th — Champions League Semi Finals, Leg 2

The first leg against Real Madrid had ended 0-0, which meant it was all to play for. 

They were European royalty. This biggest test of your season so far.

Pietro was finally back, which meant Bucky could return to his natural position up top. Bucky was relieved. You’d been forced to use him in midfield, and he’d done well, but this… this was where he thrived.

Madrid dominated possession, and your team had to defend for their lives. T’challa Udaku, usually a more aggressive right back, had to stay back the whole game to stop Vini jr. from going through. Wagner made three ridiculous saves. It was 0-0 for most of the match, and it seemed destined to stay that way.

Then, in the 89th minute, you got a corner. Brian Braddock curled it in, and Bucky, who had spent the last ten minutes fighting off Rüdiger, found the perfect pocket of space.

He had two touches: one for control and another to tap-in. 

1-0.

Bucky’s first-ever Champions League semi-final, and he had scored the winning goal against Real Madrid at their home.

Bucky sprinted to the corner flag, arms spread wide in celebration, teammates piling onto him. The entire stadium erupted. You, now stood up in the coaching area, barely registered Erskine grabbing your shoulders, shaking you with an overjoyed laugh. “You were right about him!” He exclaimed.

You let out a deep breath, shaking your head. “Of course I was.”

The final whistle blew minutes later.

Your team was in the Champions League finals.

May 8th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis

Bucky was already in your office when you arrived. Of course he was.

He was still in his hoodie and training gear, looking ridiculously smug as he watched the highlight reel from last night’s match. The moment he saw you, he leaned back in his chair, stretching out like a sleepy cat.

“You see that goal?” he drawled. “Beautiful.”

You laughed playfully, sitting down next to him. “It was a tap-in.”

“A winning tap-in,” he corrected.

You tried to ignore him, but failed, trying to hide the smile on your face. “You did well,” you admitted. Bucky didn’t respond immediately. You turned to look at him—only to find him already watching you.

“We could’ve won it earlier, though.” You pulled up the footage, pointing at the screen. “You hesitated again, just for a second. Watch.”

His eyes studied the replay, his brows furrowing. “Yeah,” he nodded, “Should’ve gone inside instead of trying to beat him wide.”

“Exactly.” You glanced at him, catching the way he was still looking at you—not at the numbers.

Your throat went dry.

“We’ll fix it,” you said quickly, turning back to the monitor.

“I like it when you say ‘we,’” he murmured, voice low, teasing.

You swallowed, ignoring the flip in your stomach

“Bucky,” you sighed. “You’re great. But you’re still losing a lot of aerial duels.”

He blinked, as if taken aback by the shift in tone.

“I talked to Erskine,” you continued. “He wants me to go over the numbers with you, show you how to improve, okay?”

Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees, suddenly more focused. “Alright. Hit me.”

You swiped to another stat sheet. “Madrid won 72% of their aerial duels last night. You won 2 out of 7. Rüdiger dominated you physically. You struggled against Tchouaméni when he dropped back to cover. If we play like this in the final, we’ll have problems.”

Bucky let out a deep breath. “Damn. I knew Rüdiger was a nightmare, but I didn’t think I was that bad.”

“You weren’t bad,” you said. “You just weren’t dominant.”

“Right.” he smiled playfully. “And you need me to be dominant?”

You shot him a stern look. “Bucky.”

“What,” he said, then winked, “I just—”

“Bucky, stop,” you said sternly.

His smirk dropped instantly. “Shit,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

You sighed, pushing your chair back. 

You usually didn’t mind his flirting. Most of the time, you flirted back. But today was different.

You put your arms over yourself in an attempt of comfort. “I’m just trying to do my job.”

Oh. 

Bucky straightened his posture. His usual playfulness faded away as he carefully put a hand on your thigh, careful to not cross a boundary. 

“We’re just… we're so close to winning the Champions League,” you said quietly. “You are so close.”

He nodded in understanding, He felt the pressure, too.

“You’re my project, okay?” you admitted. “I convinced my dad to sign you. If we win—with you at the center of it—it’ll shut up all the people who said I was a nepotist hire.” You let out a breath. “Do you get that?”

Bucky was silent. You had seen him fight. You had seen him frustrated—at a bad call, at a missed chance, at himself. But this was not that,

When he spoke, his voice was quieter. “You think you have to prove yourself to them?”

You swallowed. “I think I have to prove myself to everyone.”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “God, that's ridiculous,” he said.

Your mouth parted slightly. “Excuse me?”

“You already proved yourself.” His eyes met yours, intense and steady. “You helped build this team. You made me better. I’ve talked to the boys out there, and every single one of them will say that you’ve helped, one way or another.”

Your throat tightened to close up.

“You are the reason we’re winning,” he said simply, as if it was fact. “Not me. You.”

Oh? Was that what he really thought of you?

“Look,” he continued, gentler now. “I’ll take the aerial duels more seriously. I promise.”

You nodded slowly.

Then, Bucky smiled. This time, it wasn’t smug. It was just… kind.

“You’re just so fucking smart,” he suddenly said. It came out of nowhere. “It’s annoying.”

A laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it.

“See?” Bucky grinned. “There she is. Thought I lost you for a second.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

May 30th — Training Center, the day before the Champions League Final

It had been a brutal season—long, exhausting, filled with near-misses and last-minute heartbreaks. You’ve lost the Premier League, finishing third in the table. 

But this was still possible.

The Champions League Final. Win, and none of the late collapses would matter.

Which was why you and Bucky were still here, pouring over his stats one last time.

“You see the pattern?” you murmured, scrolling through the data.

Bucky, sitting beside you, leaned in. His knee brushed against yours, but neither of you made the effort to move away.

“Yeah,” he exhaled. “Last twenty minutes, my pressing drops. Feels like I’m dragging.”

You nodded, tapping the screen. “Your pressing numbers in the first half are great, but by the end, you’re winning fewer duels, completing fewer sprints. It’s not fatigue— I’ve talked to Sam about that. So it must be decision-making. You’re reacting instead of anticipating.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “So basically, I gotta stop being an idiot in the 70th minute.”

You shrugged. “That’s one way to put it.”

He turned to look at you then, and you suddenly realised how close he was to you.

You could feel the warmth of his breath, see the way his eyes reflected back at you. “Thanks,” he finally said. “For everything.”

Your throat went dry.

You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion, the pressure, or the fact that you had spent months dancing around each other, around whatever this was.

Now, he was watching you like he was waiting.

And—god help you—you weren’t sure you’d stop him if he tried.

He leaned in. Just slightly. Just enough.

Is this really happening?

And then the door swung open.

“Erskine sent me.”

You jolted back so fast you nearly knocked your laptop off the table.

Miguel O’Hara stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. Your defensive midfielder was one of the best in the game, and apparently, a professional mood-killer. “Said I needed to see my tackle stats.”

Bucky took a deep breath, looking away as he pushed himself up from his chair. “Great timing, O’Hara.”

Miguel chuckled. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath as he grabbed his bag and made his way to the door. As he passed Miguel, the midfielder smacked him on the back—just a little too hard, but still harmless.

“Don’t stay up too late, Barnes,” he said, tone just on the edge of teasing. “Big game tomorrow.”

Bucky shot him a glare but said nothing, shoving the door open and disappearing down the hall.

Miguel chuckled before turning back to you, sliding into the seat Bucky had just left.

“So,” he said. “Barnes, huh?”

“Nope,” you said immediately, shaking your head. “Not a word.”

Miguel held up his hands in surrender. “Lips are sealed.”

You exhaled, rubbing your temples. You didn’t even know what had almost happened—if anything had almost happened. But now wasn’t the time to think about it.

All that mattered was winning tomorrow.

May 31st — Champions League Final

You stood with the coaching staff on the sidelines, heart pounding as the match against Bayern Munich stretched into extra time. Twice, you had taken the lead. Twice, Bayern had clawed their way back— first through Jamal Musiala’s quick footwork in the box, then an absolute worldie from Harry Kane.

Now, with the score stuck at 2-2, you could tell exhaustion was setting in. Bucky was still moving, still searching for the moment. As Erskine took people off to substitute, he kept Bucky there as the glue keeping the team together.

Then, it happened.

Joaquin spotted the space before anyone else did, curling a perfect cross into the box. Bucky timed his run to perfection, drifting between the center-backs. No hesitation. He jumped above the defense, and met the ball with a wonderful header.

The net rippled.

3-2.

He kept his promise. He scored a header. And this time, Bayern didn’t equalize.

The final whistle blew.

For a second, the stadium held its breath. And then, the chaos came.

The bench erupted. The players collapsed, some to their knees, others running in every direction. 

The team had done it. Champions of Europe.

But before you could even process it, Bucky was sprinting toward you, eyes wide with adrenaline. Before you could properly greet him, his arms were around you, lifting you clean off the ground, spinning you around in a dizzying circle. You gasped, holding onto him for dear life

Then, as he set you down, he pressed his forehead to yours.

His breath was short and quick, his hands still gripping your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go. His lips parted slightly, his eyes watching your mouth, then back up again. 

Fuck.

He wanted to kiss you. For a split second, you almost thought he would.

But then you looked up to the hospitality box.

Your father was watching.

Bucky must have realised it at the same time, because instead of closing the last inch between you, he just…hugged you. So tightly, so desperately, like if he held on long enough, he could say everything he wanted to without speaking at all.

“You did it,” you whispered, voice barely carrying over the chaos around you.

“No,” he said. “We did it. We all did.”

—

After the award ceremony, you ran. Instead of celebrating with the team, you sat alone in an empty conference room at Wembley, staring at your laptop screen and the match statistics in hand. You weren’t really working—you were just… distracting yourself from the noise.

From him.

The way he’d looked at you, the way he’d held you— it had been building for months.

But your father owned the club, for fuck’s sake.You were better than this.

The door creaked open, and you already knew who it was.

“You do realise we just won the Champions League, right?” Bucky asked.

You didn’t look up immediately, keeping your eyes on the screen. “That what all the screaming about?” Sarcastic, dry— your first response to being slightly uncomfortable. It worked sometimes.

Bucky let out a laugh, stepping further inside. “Hilarious.”

Finally, you looked up.

He was leaning against the doorway, medal still around his neck, shirt untucked. His hair was still damp from the match, strands falling into his face, and his palms were raw from falling down on the grass more times than he could care to count. (which was 32, by the way. You counted).

He looked ridiculously infuriating.

And so fucking good.

“Why are you here?” you asked, tilting your head. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

Bucky shrugged, stepping closer. “Was looking for you.”

You forced yourself to scoff. “And here I thought you had priorities.”

“I do.” He smirked. “Turns out you’re one of them.”

You rolled your eyes. “Save the charm for someone who’s impressed by it.”

“That would still be you,” he said.

You turned back to your laptop, pretending to ignore him, even as your heart started beating out of your chest. “Well, you’re wrong.”

Bucky pulled out the chair next to you and sat on it like he had all the time in the world. His thigh brushed yours, and you hated that you noticed.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Staying.”

“You should be celebrating,” you scolded.

“I will. When you do.”

You shot him a look. “Bucky—”

“I’m serious.” He nudged your arm. “You worked just as hard as we did. You should be out there, too.”

You took a deep breath, rubbing your temple. “I just needed a second to think.”

He chuckled. “You? Thinking too much? Shocking.”

You glared at him. “Don’t you have a party to be at?”

“Like I said—I was looking for you.”

Fuck, was he always this insistent? “Why?”

Bucky tilted his head, watching you for a second before saying, too casually, “Because you ran off before I could kiss you.”

Your breath hitched instantly.

“I didn’t.” You forced a shrug, denying the heat curling in your stomach. “And you weren’t going to kiss me.”

“You did,” he accused, “And I was.” He leaned in, voice dropping lower. “And you wanted me to.”

Your heart pounded. “My dad was right there.”

Bucky just smirked. “Yeah. And you still looked at me like you wanted me, too.”

You swallowed hard.

This was stupid.

You should shut this down.

Tell him to leave.

Remind him—remind yourself—why it would be very difficult to make this work,

But then, his voice dropped even lower. “You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?” He whispered huskily, his Brooklyn accent slipping out of his words. “You walk around actin’ like you don’t feel this— like you don’t see the way I look at you every damn time I’m on that pitch.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going.

“You drive me insane, you know that? Pretending you don’t want me when I know you do.”

You should shut this down.

Instead… you kissed him first.

Or maybe he kissed you first. You didn’t know, didn’t care. 

Bucky’s hands were on you immediately—one tilting your chin, the other holding your waist, pulling you out of your chair and into his lap like he needed to. His lips teasing, taking, testing.

And you let him.

Your hands fisted his shirt, dragging him closer as he groaned against your mouth. His tongue brushed yours, and everything felt like a perfect contradiction—messy and controlled, rough and soft, teasing and hungry.

He kissed like he played—all in. Desperate, determined, and so fucking good at it.

His hand slid lower, fingers grazing the hem of your shirt, and your breath hitched.

You wanted more. You needed more. 

Then, you heard footsteps echoing down the hall.

You shoved him away just as the door swung open.

Erskine stepped inside, eyebrows raised. “There you are. Press is looking for you, Barnes. And—” His eyes darted between the, suspicion creeping in. “Everything okay?”

It’s not like he could prove anything. You cleared your throat, smoothing out your shirt. “Yeah.”

Bucky swiped his thumb over the corner of his mouth, erasing the last of your lipstick from his lips before Erskine could see it. “Just going over some stats.”

The manager didn’t question it. “Well, hurry up.”

As soon as the door shut, Bucky turned back to you, “You almost got us caught, sweetheart.”

You scoffed. “You kissed me.”

His brow lifted. “You kissed me.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he just leaned in again, “and we’re gonna do it again.”

—

You ended up celebrating that night,

There was no way around it— not when the entire team was already half-drunk, singing Freed From Desire in the locker room, parading the trophy around the stadium like it was the Holy Grail. 

You kept your distance to bucky when your father was around, of course, but he made it hard. He kept looking at you from across the room, eyes half-lidded and smug, knowing that he got you wrapped around his fingers. Every once in a while, he’d find an excuse to brush an arm against you when no one was watching. 

You almost didn’t realise when the celebrations moved from the stadium to the hotel, but at some point, you were all piling up at the bar. And bless the bartenders, having to deal with 20 sweaty footballers asking for pints all night— you even heard your father say something about having to leave a massive tip and chuckled.

Then, Bucky leaned in close. “You’re thinking too much again.”

You shivered. “You’re being reckless.”

He grinned. “What’s the fun in being careful?”

You shot him a glare, but he only chuckled, his fingers hovering over your hip as he moved past you, making a show of not touching you in full view of your father.

Fucking menace.

You managed to keep up the charade for a few more hours, dodging questions from Sam and Miguel. You played it cool. Kept your distance.

Until you somehow ended up in Bucky’s hotel room.

In his bed.

You weren’t even sure how it happened—one moment, you were slipping out of the party early, and the next, Bucky was opening his door like he’d been waiting for you all night.

And maybe he had.

You barely had time to breathe before his hands were on you, pulling you in, crashing his lips against yours like he needed you to survive.

And fuck, maybe you needed him, too.

The kiss was desperate. It was filthy.

Bucky moaned into your mouth, walking you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. "You drive me fucking crazy," he muttered against your lips. "Do you know that?"

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him down with you.

June 1st — The Morning After

Bucky woke to the gentle click-click of a keyboard.

What? 

He blinked groggily, muscles pleasantly sore, body still recovering from the match… and from last night.

And then he saw you.

Sitting at the desk across the room, back to him, hair a mess, bare skin glowing in the morning sun. Still naked.

He grinned sleepily, making puppy dog eyes at you. “You’re beautiful.”

You didn’t turn around, only humming in acknowledgment, eyes locked on your laptop screen. “Mm. Morning, Barnes.”

Bucky stretched, watching you lazily. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at match data,” you said simply, like it was obvious. “Your heat map was insane last night.”

Bucky groaned, flopping back against the pillows. “Doll, please.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder. “What?”

“I love stats as much as the next guy, but I just woke up, and you’re sitting there—” he waved a hand at you, exasperated, “—naked, talking about heat maps? C’mon.”

You only laughed. “You did cover a lot of ground last night.”

His eyes turned a wicked shade of blue. “I covered a lot of ground?” He pushed himself up, the sheets slipping down his torso, exposing his bare chest. “Pretty sure you were the one putting in the work, sweetheart.”

You shook your head and put a hand out, “Come here, Barnes.”

Bucky grinned, slipping out of bed, not bothering to put anything on. His hands found your shoulders, fingers skimming along your skin as he pressed lazy kisses to the back of your neck as you showed him the data,

“Doll,” he said, mouth brushing your ear, “as much as I’d love to hear about my passing accuracy, I’d rather have you back in bed.”

His hands slid lower, tracing down your arms, featherlight, teasing.

You inhaled sharply. “Bucky—”

“C’mon,” he whispered, lips dragging down the slope of your shoulder. “Forget about it for a second.”

Your fingers rattled over the keys. “This is important—”

“This,” he murmured, lips grazing your skin, “is more important.”

His hands slipped lower, wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“Bucky,” you warned.

He looked like pure sin. “Yeah?”

You attempted to stay focused. “I really should—”

“Doll,” he said, tone rougher this time, fingers tracing circles on your bare thighs, “you wanna talk numbers? Fine. How about this— I can make you come in under five minutes.”

Your breath hitched.

Bucky grinned, nudging your ear with his nose. “Or, if you’re really competitive, we can see if you can last longer than that.”

Dammit.

Your laptop snapped shut.

And Bucky laughed as he scooped you up and carried you back to bed.

—

By the time you dragged yourself out of bed (far later than usual, thanks to a certain footballer who had been very, very persuasive about abandoning your laptop), you were immediately thrown into a whirlwind of interviews, team meetings, and endless obligations. The club's media team had scheduled back-to-back press conferences, interviews, and photo ops with the trophy.

Bucky, of course, handled it all like he handled everything— calmly, and a little smug. He was great at it.

A team meeting was scheduled first thing, mostly for logistics— transport back home, media obligations, the parade plans. You were there, half-listening as the club staff went over the schedule, but your mind was on him.

Bucky sat across the table, fresh from a shower, damp hair pushed back, a loose hoodie hanging off his frame. Every now and then, you’d catch him glancing at you.

After the meeting, the press conferences began. Thankfully, you didn't have to be involved in too much of this.

Erskine went first, answering questions about tactics, substitutions, and the significance of the win. Then it was Bucky and a few of the key players’ turn, sitting at the podium under the blinding lights as they answered the usual questions.

But it was different now. Winning meant Bucky was no longer bombarded with questions about being a late bloomer. Now, he wasn’t just a player trying to prove himself in a new league— he was a champion.

"What was going through your mind before you scored the winner?"

Bucky leaned into the mic. “Nothing, really. Just… get in the right position. Get my head on it. Score."

"And after?"

For a split second, he hesitated. 

"After?" He echoed, his eyes darting toward you, who was standing at the back of the room with the other staff. "Just wanted to find someone."

No one else knew what he meant. But you did.

You stayed busy throughout the day, making sure all the data from the match was logged, answering a few questions yourself from journalists who were more interested in your role as a statistical analyst than your father.

That afternoon, the victory parade wound its way through the city, an open-top bus carrying the team through the streets, fans lining the roads, chanting, cheering, throwing scarves and beer into the air.

You stood near the back of the bus with some of the coaching staff, watching as Bucky lifted the trophy for the crowd in one hand, microphone in the other as Braddock led the chants. 

By the time the parade ended, the players were drained, half-drunk, still running on fumes.

The team had plans to go out, to party until the sun came up again. But you and Bucky didn’t.

Instead, you both found yourselves in his apartment, sitting on the floor with some very expensive takeout between you.

Neither of you had planned it this way. It just… happened.

Bucky had disappeared into his bedroom for a moment, emerging in sweats and a hoodie, looking far too comfortable, far too at home for the conversation you were about to have.

You let out a deep breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding. “I should go.”

Bucky, sat back down, cross-legged on the carpet across from you. He frowned. “Why?”

“Because.” You gestured vaguely at the air, at the invisible everything wrong about this. “Because it’s late. Because I shouldn’t be here.”

He pushed off the counter, stepping closer. “You were in my hotel room last night.”

“That was different.”

“Was it?”

You forced yourself to look away. “Bucky—”

“Can we at least talk about us?” he finally said, his voice quieter this time, a little more unsure.

Your chest tightened. “I—”

“No, I get it,” he cut in before you could dig yourself into a hole too deep to climb out of. “Your dad owns the club. You work for the team. This is messy—” He shook his head, exhaling sharply. “But I can’t pretend this never happened.”

You couldn’t find the words.

His jaw ticked. “Can you?”

You should say yes. You should be logical, responsible. You should remind him—and yourself—why this was a bad idea.

But all you could think about was last night. The way he had looked at you after the final whistle. The way he had kissed you, like he didn’t care about contracts or your father’s approval.

“...No.”

Bucky sighed, tilting his head back against the couch. Then, after a beat, he opened his arms. “C’mere.”

That was all it took.

You hesitated for maybe half a second before climbing onto his lap, your knees on either side of his torso, hands resting against his chest. Bucky wrapped his arms around you like he was afraid you’d change your mind before pressing his forehead to yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. 

Then, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should say it, he did. “I think I might be falling in love with you.”

Your heart did an embarrassing little flip.

And before you could stop yourself—before logic, before fear, before professionalism could talk you out of it—you whispered, “Me too.”

His arms tightened around you, his lips brushing against your temple, his voice a little rough when he murmured, “Good. That’s… really good.”

But you couldn't ignore reality pulling you back up to the surface, You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself. “But we cannot let this interfere with work,” you said, fingers fisting the fabric of his hoodie. “My job is everything to me. It’s my life.”

Bucky leaned back slightly, tilting his head at you, amused. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His lips twitched. “Just that I’ve never met someone so—what’s the word? Dedicated? No, obsessed. Yeah, that’s it. You are obsessed with your job.”

You scowled, shoving his shoulder. “I am not obsessed.”

“Oh, really?” He raised a brow. “So it wasn’t you I saw pacing outside the locker room last week saying ‘expected goals ratio is a lie, I have to recalculate the whole formula’ under your breath?”

You groaned. “It was wrong, Bucky! The data wasn’t aligning with the actual game performance!”

He grinned. “Uh-huh.”

You crossed your arms. “Excuse me for caring about my work.”

“I love that you care.” His hands smoothed over your waist, drawing small circles against your hip bone, “And this won’t interfere with anything.” he promised.

You gave him a look. “You say that now, but what happens when I have to take a call about your contract? What happens when you have a bad run and I have to be the one to tell Erskine you’re underperforming?”

Bucky’s smile didn't falter as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ears. “Then you tell them.”

Your stomach twisted into a knot. “Bucky—”

“I never want you to sugarcoat my performance,” he said firmly. “Not for me. Not for anyone. If I’m not good enough, I want to know.”

Your fingers toyed absently with the hem of his hoodie, your chest tightening. He made it sound so easy.

“I don’t want to be the reason your career suffers,” you admitted.

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I was just about to say the same thing.” he said, “But I don’t want to lose you over a technicality.”

You bit your lip, exhaling. “It's… not a technicality. It's my— our careers.”

“And we’ll figure it out,” he said simply.

He was so sure. So certain. He might’ve just convinced you.

“We… we also need to keep this a secret,” you added after a beat. “Okay?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You think the media will tear into us?”

“You kidding?” You huffed. “The public won’t care. We're probably the least exciting couple in football.” It was clear he hadn't been paying attention to the people his teammates were dating— models, actresses, singers. People whose lives were much more public than yours. “But if my dad finds out, he will have your head.”

Bucky grinned, tipping his head to the side. “Hm. That’s fair.”

“At least… for now.”

His smile softened, hands sliding down to your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he didn’t want to let go. He nodded. “For now.”

Then, with a teasing smirk, he added, “Guess that means I get to have you all to myself for a little longer, huh?”

Mid-June — Off-Season

The break between the seasons was a welcome relief. You both had a month-ish of downtime before the pre-season training would start again, which meant you had time to work, unwind, and—try as you might—keep things from getting even more complicated. 

One morning, you found yourself sitting at Bucky’s kitchen table, your laptop open in front of you. You were scouting potential transfers for the club—yet another thing you’d been buried in since the season ended. Bucky had insisted that he’d handle the coffee run, but now he was back with an American and a Cappuccino, lazily balancing a football from one leg to the other in the yard while you worked.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he walked past the window, kicking the ball up and catching it with ease. He was wearing a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, and honestly, you could hardly focus on your scouting with him out there. 

Ugh. How dare your boyfriend be this hot?

“Hey, Bucky!” you called out, trying to regain some focus. “Can you come in for a minute?”

He glanced up from his ball-throwing session and grinned, giving a mock salute before striding inside. “What’s up?”

“Can you give me your opinion on this winger?” You pointed to the stats on your screen, showing a promising young player with an impressive 89% overall performance. 

Bucky asked, “How old is this guy?”

“Nineteen.”

Bucky squinted at the stats, then at his photo, his eyes narrowing as if trying to assess him. 

“Nineteen?” He flopped onto the couch next to you, his feet up on the coffee table as he leaned over to get a better look at the screen. “Left winger, huh?”

“Yeah, I know. This could be a major long-term signing for the team,” you said, scrolling through his performance history.

Bucky scoffed. “Skip.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Skip him,” he repeated, dismissing the player with a flick of his hand. “Nineteen and that good? He's gonna have an ego bigger than the Ikea in Wembley. That never ends well.”

You laughed. “Bucky, this isn’t Football Manager. You can’t just skip players because you think they’re going to have an ego.”

He grinned, giving you a playful scowl. “You know I’m right.”

You would never admit it, but you just put the kid’s profile aside and labelled it sign to loan. 

—

As the week passed, you found yourself spending more nights at Bucky’s place. It was cosy— comfortably messy, with football memorabilia covering the walls, a couch that swallowed you whole, and a kitchen that always smelled like something baking or a hearty pot of soup simmering. Sometimes, he stayed at your apartment, but you preferred it here. Yours felt more like a workspace with personal touches sprinkled here and there. It wasn’t intentional, it was just that most of your personal things were still at your father’s house— childhood home.

One evening, you sat Bucky down in the living room, he glanced up from his phone.

He put his phone down, tilting his head in curiosity. He could tell you had something to say. “What’s up?”

“We need to talk about ground rules. For when we go back to work.” You took a deep breath, willing yourself to be serious for once. 

Bucky’s lips curved in amusement as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Ground rules? You mean like… no affection in public?”

You crossed your arms and nodded, fighting back a smile. “No sneaking around at work. No kisses in the hallway. No dragging me into empty offices for secret make-out sessions.”

“Aw, come on.” Bucky leaned back, draping an arm over the couch with a dramatic sigh. “What’s the fun in that?”

You raised a finger, trying not to cave to his puppy dog eyes. “And no making up dumb excuses just to see me.”

He scoffed, crossing his arms like a petulant child. “What if I actually need to talk to you?”

“Then you schedule a meeting in the calendar, like everyone else,” you said, matching his defiance, but the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.

Bucky groaned, flopping against the cushions in fake defeat.

Then, almost sheepishly, you added, “Okay… maybe one office make-out session a week. But we have to be smart about it.”

His eyes lit up instantly. “Deal.” Before you could second-guess yourself, he pulled you into him, triumphant.

The rules were set, no matter how ridiculous they felt. And yet, as you nestled closer, you couldn’t help but think that maybe… just maybe, this secret was worth keeping.

After all, who could resist Bucky Barnes? Even if he was a little too cocky for his own good.

July 16th — Pre-season Training 

After a long break, the players were eager to get back into the groove, and the club was ready to push for even bigger achievements in the upcoming season. You were buried in your stats and scouting reports, more focused than ever. 

The first day back was as intense as you expected. The training ground was buzzing with activity, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart race as you entered the facility. You’d been through this routine countless times before—analysing stats, monitoring players, making sure their numbers were as perfect as possible. But this time, there was one thing you couldn’t calculate: how your relationship with Bucky would affect everything.

You stepped into the manager’s office, where Abraham Erskine was discussing strategy with Alexei. 

"Good morning," Erskine greeted you, offering a nod. "Have you had a chance to go over the data from last season?”

You nodded, adjusting your glasses. "I have it all here. Still need time to get through everything, but I’ll get it sorted out."

Erskine grinned, always trusting your analysis. "Perfect."

Alexei gave you a nod. "And if you need anything, you know where I am."

As you stepped out of the office, you saw Bucky on the pitch, running fitness drills with Sam and his team. You couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly he dribbled the ball, his movements fluid and precise. Dare you say, a striker at his prime.

He caught your eye from across the field, and for a moment, everything else faded away. You quickly turned your attention back to your clipboard and the stats on your screen, reminding yourself that you couldn’t afford distractions.

—

The players were already out on the field, getting ready for a five-a-side training match. Alexei was yelling on behalf of Erskine from the sidelines, making sure everyone was pushing themselves to the limit. 

You joined the rest of the coaching staff, standing near the sidelines with Erskine, Alexei, and Sam, watching the players as they ran across the field trying to defend and score in a small-scale match..

"Bucky's looking good," Sam commented, watching as he received a pass, flicking it effortlessly past one of the defenders. 

"He's been working  on his stamina during the break,” you said, the words slipping out before you could think.

Thankfully, no one seemed to question how you knew, except for maybe Sam, who only raised an eyebrow.

"That’s good. He’ll need it for the new season," Erskine added. "We’re pushing the tempo this year, more focus on fast breaks."

"Speaking of fast breaks," Alexei said, "Did you see that new guy, Piotr? He’s got decent pace.”

You nodded, jotting down notes. Piotr Rasputin, the new left-back, had already made an impression during his first few sessions. His speed, strength, and ability to cover ground quickly were going to make him a key player in transitions.

"We’ll need to see how he works with T'Challa,” you said, “probably gonna be a tough adjusting period, especially with our new signings in the center."

"Right," Alexei said, glancing toward the center of the pitch. "Marko and O’Hara will need to get their communication sorted out. They’re both physical players, but Marko can be a bit… rough around the edges."

You nodded. Cain Marko, the new central defensive midfielder, had a reputation for his strength, but his discipline was something to keep an eye on. 

The match continued, and Da Costa struggled against Zemo. Thankfully, Torres was feeding him precise passes, setting him up for shots on goal.

You were going to have a good season. 

July 25th — First Pre-season Game

Another match. Another win. Another goal from Bucky.

This time, it was a home game to test out your tactics against Italian Champions Inter Milan. 

It was a textbook performance from Bucky: 89% passing accuracy, five successful take-ons, one assist, and, of course, a goal.

The moment his shot hit the back of the net, Bucky turned straight to where you stood on the sidelines, barely masking the grin pulling at his lips. 

This was for you.

July 25th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis

You sat on the edge of your desk, laptop open, trying to keep your focus. Bucky, on the other hand? Leaning against the chair, still in his sweaty training clothes, looking way too satisfied with himself.

"Your movement in the final third was better this time," you said, scrolling through the match data.

"Mhm," Bucky hummed, distracted. His fingers traced along your thigh.

Are you even listening?"

"Of course, doll." He smiled. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he was the picture of innocence. "Final third movement. You liked it."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away when his hand slid higher. Focus. Stay professional.

"Anyway," you continued, keeping your voice even, "your xG in the first half was—"

He kissed you before you could finish.

Gently, teasing, just enough to make you lose your train of thought. You sighed against his lips, fingers gripping the edge of the desk, but you didn’t stop.

"Your xG was 1.2," you managed between kisses.

"Mhm," he mumbled, mouth trailing along your jaw. "And what about my pressing stats?"

You tried to focus, but Bucky’s hands were slipping under your shirt.

"89%," you exhaled, tilting your head as his lips brushed against your neck.

"That good?" he murmured, grinning against your skin.

"Yeah," you breathed, biting back a gasp as his hands tightened around your waist. "Best in the squad."

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, pleased. "That right?"

You nodded. He had a good game and he knew it.

"Guess we should celebrate, then."

—

It’s safe to say that you and Bucky extended your stay in your office.

By the time you had finished cleaning your office up after the mess you made, the training ground was almost empty.

Now, it was just you and Bucky, sitting on the edge of the training pitch, boots scuffing against the grass.

Your phone buzzed with a traffic report. You glanced at it and groaned. "Ugh. I’m gonna be stuck in traffic for hours before I get home."

Bucky stretched, and offered. "Come to mine."

You shook your head. "Yeah, and get stuck in the same traffic? No thanks."

You turned the screen toward him, showing the live updates— Multiple road closures. An accident on the main route out of the city. Absolute chaos.

He sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "Great."

A second passed as stared at the screen, then at Bucky, then back at the screen.

You had an idea.

"Wait—come with me."

Bucky frowned as you stood abruptly. "What?"

"Just trust me."

—

Ten minutes later, you were pulling into a long, tree-lined driveway, the city chaos left behind. The road closures were the other way. Thankfully, you had keys to a place nearby. 

Bucky sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, watching as the gated house came into view.

His brows raised. "What’s this?"

You put the car in park. "My dad’s house. The house I grew up in."

Bucky blinked. "Your dad—"

"He’s not home," you clarified quickly, unbuckling your seatbelt. "He's on an overseas trip to meet with sponsors. Won’t be back for a week, I think."

Bucky turned to you, a mischief on his lips. "Oh?"

You swallowed. "Don’t get any ideas, Barnes."

—

The door clicked shut behind you. 

It was quieter than you remembered, and it felt like time had paused the moment you left, freezing everything in place, waiting for you to come back.

And yet, the air still smelled the same. Your father’s favorite room freshener clung to the walls like a memory that refused to fade. You could even still smell the polish on the hardwood floors—it was all still here, untouched. Preserved.

Bucky followed close behind, his usual confidence tempered by the fear of stepping out of line. He looked around, taking it all in. 

And then he saw them.

The trophies.

Lined up on the shelves outside of your father’s study, glimmering under the light. They stood untouched, as if time waited for you to claim them again. 

Small ones at first—junior leagues, local tournaments, academy honours. Then bigger. Regional championships, national competitions. Medals draped over plaques, certificates framed neatly.

His eyes landed on a newspaper clipping, framed like the rest. 

SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD WONDERKID: THE DEFENSIVE FUTURE OF WOMEN’S FOOTBALL

And beneath it was a photo of a younger you. 

His throat tightened. Then he saw it—the trophy that confirmed it. Under-20 Women’s World Cup Champion. 

You hadn’t just been good. You had been the best of your generation

"You wanted to play, too?" Bucky’s voice was almost careful.

You hesitated. Not because you were hiding it, but because it wasn’t something you really talked about anymore.

"Yeah," you admitted. "Center back." A ghost of a smile formed at your lips. "I was pretty good, too."

Bucky stepped closer, scanning the awards, the photographs tucked beside them—team shots, you at the center, laughing with your teammates. And then there was one—caught mid-game, celebrating a goal with a knee slide and unfiltered joy. 

His voice went lower. "What… happened?"

Your fingers trailed along the edge of one of the shelves. "Hamstring injury. It never healed right. Tried to push through, but I wasn’t the same."

Bucky could only nod. He knew injuries, knew what they did to athletes, to their futures.

"How old were you?"

"Seventeen."

His heart ached. Seventeen. Just a kid.

You shrugged, forcing indifference into your smile, as if who you were then didn’t for who you are now. "I knew I’d never go pro after that, so I chose to fall in love with this part of the game."

Bucky was silent for a moment, before finally saying. "I didn’t know that."

You met his eyes and gave him a sad smile. "Lots you still don’t know about me, Barnes."

He didn’t like that like there were parts of you he hadn’t uncovered yet, pieces of your story buried so deep even you pretended they didn’t matter anymore.

"You ever thought about it?" he asked. "What could’ve been?"

You hesitated for a second. "Sometimes," you admitted. "But not in the way you think."

Bucky tilted his head, waiting.

"I don’t regret where I am now,” you explained. “I love being the person who sees things before they happen, I really do. But…" You ran a hand through your hair. "Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve felt like. To step onto that pitch, just once. To have a chant for me, to hear my name over the speakers, to be in it, you know?”

Bucky didn’t look away. He did know. That was his life. "You miss it?" He asked, curious.

"Every now and again," you admitted. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just reached down, plucked up one of your old medals, turning it over in his fingers. His thumb brushed over the engraving of your name.

"Then let’s play."

You blinked. "What?"

"Right now," he said, that cocky little smirk you loved so much playing on his lips. "I saw the goalposts in the garden. One v. one. Unless you’re scared?"

You rolled your eyes. "Bucky—"

"What?" He tossed the medal back onto the shelf and turned to you fully. "Can’t keep up with a pro?"

“I coach you,” You reminded him, scoffing. "I am not scared.”

He stepped back toward the door, a familiar flame in his eyes. "Prove it."

And just like that, the fire inside you came back to life.

—

Not ten minutes later, you were outside. The grass was cool and damp beneath your feet, the backyard stretching wide and open behind the house as moonlights casting shadows over the makeshift goalposts your father had set up years ago.

Bucky had found an old football in the garage, rolling it under his foot, watching you with that same infuriatingly charming face. 

"First to five?" he offered, challenging you.

You nodded.

The game started off sloppy—neither of you in match form. You were coming off years of watching from the sidelines, and of course, he was going easy on you. 

Your first touch was too heavy, shots lacking precision. But after a few minutes, instinct took over. Your muscles…  remembered. 

You faked left, then flicked the ball around him with a burst of speed that surprised you.

"Shit," he muttered, turning on his heel to chase after you.

You laughed, breathless.

This was familiar. This was intoxicating. 

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about strategy, about numbers, about your father’s expectations or the injury you suffered. 

You were just playing the game you had loved since you could walk.

Bucky caught up, nudging you with his shoulder, using his strength to knock you off balance. He stole possession with an easy touch, flicking the ball past you before slotting it into the net. 

You huffed, placing your hands on your hips. "Lucky shot."

He tilted his head, watching you. "You love this,” he said.

Not a question. A fact.

You chuckled. "I do."

His blue eyes softened, like he could see straight through you and find the kid who had once dreamed of stadium lights and roaring crowds. The kid who had to let it go.

"Don’t forget that."

You didn’t know how to answer. So you  just tackled him instead.

—

It was fast. Messy. Fun.

You scored. He scored.

4-4.

You knew he let you score at least two of your goals but you didn’t call him out on it. He was your boyfriend, after all. Your boyfriend who, mind you,  who won the Golden Boot last season. 

Bucky yelped as you knocked him off balance, the two of you tumbling into the grass. He landed on his back, you half on top of him, both of you laughing too hard to care. 

The laughter faded, but you stayed close. His hand found your cheek, fingers brushing over your skin.

His voice was softer when he spoke next.

"You would’ve been great."

The words settled. You hadn’t let yourself feel like this in a long time.

“Maybe," you whispered. 

His thumb traced over your cheekbone. "No maybe about it."

And then, there was nothing else to say he kissed you.

Slowly, His lips impossibly gentle on yours.

When you pulled back, you didn’t hesitate. You scrambled up, found the ball, and booted it straight into the net.

5-4

"I WIN!"

Bucky groaned, throwing his head back into the grass. "You were distracting me!"

You stood over him, victorious. "Sounds like a skill issue, Barnes."

—

Your childhood room felt smaller than you remembered. 

Old posters still covered the walls, though their edges were curling and yellowing slightly with age— legends of the game staring down as you both sat on the bed. 

Bucky looked amused when his eyes landed on one in particular. He let out a low whistle.

“Gerard Piqué, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, already hearing the teasing you were about to endure. “Shut up.”

Bucky grinned, leaning back on his elbows. “I get it. World-class defender, Champions League winner… and what, you had a little crush on Shakira’s ex?”

You scoffed, kicking off your shoes as you dropped onto the bed. “I admired his game.”

"Uh-huh. Sure. Nothing to do with those blue eyes?" His smirk was downright wicked now. "Kinda like mine, now that I think about it. I’m seeing a pattern here."

You crossed your arms. “I liked his defensive intelligence.”

Bucky laid beside you. “And his face?”

You smacked him with a pillow. He caught it effortlessly, laughing. 

You huffed. “He was a good defender.”

Bucky laughed. 

You grabbed another pillow, but this time, Bucky beat you to it and tucked it under his head. He was still chuckling when he said, almost sheepishly, “I, uh… didn’t really have a crush when I was younger, but—”

You raised a brow. “But?”

He sighed. “I did have a lot of Thierry Henry posters.”

You blinked. “Thierry Henry?”

It caught you off-guard. Henry and Bucky were very different strikers, after all. Thierry Henry was sleek and technically refined. Bucky was more of a physically dominant, power-based striker. 

Bucky shrugged, pretending to be indifferent, but you could see the slight pink creeping up his neck. “He was cool, alright?”

You grinned. “Are you sure you didn’t have a crush on him?”

Bucky groaned, covering his face with the pillow. “He was just so smooth. That dribbling, those finishes—he made everything look effortless.”

You laughed, nudging his arm. “This is adorable.”

“Shut up.”

“You were a little Thierry Henry fanboy.”

Bucky groaned again, but there was no real frustration in it. You tugged the pillow away, still smiling.

You traced patterns on your bedsheets. “I never would've guessed."

Bucky turned his head toward you. "And I never would've guessed Piqué was your type."

You chuckled. "He's not my type."

Bucky hummed, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "No?"

You swallowed, leaning into his touch.

"You," you insisted. "You're my type."

Bucky chuckled, hand cupping against your cheek, thumb brushing your skin.

"Good," he whispered. "Because you're mine."

You both laid there for a while, talking without any pressure, just enjoying the kind of conversation that happens when the world feels small and distant.

You asked him about life in America, about the MLS. If he missed anyone.

Bucky hesitated, staring up at the ceiling. "Not really. I mean, I had my team, my life there, but… football took me everywhere. Always moving." He sighed, a little wistful. "My sister's still there, though."

"You’re close?" you asked.

"Yeah. Used to be more, but... she's— we’re both always busy now." He paused, "But you’ll meet her someday."

You smiled. "I’d like that."

Bucky looked over at you, his expression soft. "Yeah?" he asked, as if he hadn’t quite believed you'd want to.

"Yeah."

There was a quiet moment before Bucky turned his back to the ceiling, lost in thought. "I, uh… I had a best friend in MLS."

You nudged him with your elbow. "Had?"

He smiled faintly. "He's still my best friend. He called to congratulate me on the trophy, actually. Steve Rogers. We grew up together in Brooklyn, playing football since we were kids. Ended up on the same team in MLS. He was always better, though."

You raised your eyebrows. "You literally won the Champions League last season."

Bucky chuckled softly. "Yeah, well. Steve was special. One of those players who just had it." He looked at you, his voice growling smaller. "Like you."

Your heart skipped a beat at the unexpected compliment. 

Bucky kept talking, his voice almost a whisper. "A couple years ago, he got injured. It was... bad. Never really got back to the way he used to be." He sighed.

Oh. So Rogers was very much like you.

“We used to spend hours just playing in the streets, using whatever we had for goalposts"

You hummed.

"I think I miss that part of football the most,” he admitted. “Just... playing for the love of it. No expectations. No pressure."

You shifted closer, resting your head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you in. 

"I get that," you whispered.

For a long time, you didn’t speak. There was no need for words. You just laid there, wrapped up in each other.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t alone anymore.

July 26th — Your Father’s Residence

Last night had been so innocent.

Just the two of you, curled up together in your childhood bed, limbs tangled beneath the covers.

Bucky had been sweet, so sweet and surprisingly well-behaved, even going so far as to change into one of his clean training shirts before bed, despite your teasing.

And, for a few blissful hours you had peace.

When you woke up, you felt Bucky’s chest beneath your cheek, his arms loose around your waist. For a moment, you simply watched him— his sleep-mussed hair, the way his brow scrunched slightly, the way his lips parted just enough to let out a barely-there sigh.

He was so adorable like this. Nothing like the relentless striker the world saw on the pitch.

Just Bucky. Just yours.

You smiled to yourself, stretching lazily before slipping from the bed, careful not to wake him. You walked over to the other side of the room, grabbing the jug of water from your desk and taking a sip, blinking the sleep from your eyes as you turned to the window—

And froze.

Your heart jumped into your throat.

There it was. Your dad’s car. In the driveway.

OH. SHIT.

Your stomach flipped as panic jolted through your spine.

"Bucky," you hissed, spinning around. "Bucky, wake up."

He didn’t respond for a few seconds, only managing a sleepy groan, a grumble of "Mmm, five more minutes."

You stared at him in utter betrayal. A professional athlete— a man who woke up at the crack of dawn to train every single day— was suddenly a five-more-minutes kind of guy?! Unacceptable.

You shoved his shoulder. Hard. "JAMES! HE’S HOME EARLY,” you whisper-shouted.

Bucky shot up so fast he nearly fell off the bed. "Wait—who—what—"

Well, that did it.

"My dad! My dad is home early!"

For two whole seconds, Bucky just took his sweet time processing.

"Oh shit,” he blinked.

Good. His panic mode was finally activated. 

Your brain short-circuited. "Okay, okay, okay—uh—we have to sneak you out."

Bucky scrambled out of bed, moving in the most uncoordinated way you had ever seen him move. "Right. Right. Sneak out. I—I just need to get my stuff—"

"You don’t have anything!"

"Shit! Okay!" he whisper-yelled, as if that somehow made things quieter.

And then you heard footsteps from downstairs.

Your dad was awake. 

Oh god. Any second now, he’d either call up to you or worse— walk upstairs and find his club’s star striker sneaking out of his daughter’s bedroom.

You and Bucky exchanged a look.

The sheer terror shared between you was almost comical.

"Window?" Bucky whispered.

You gawked at him. "You’re a footballer, not Spider-Man. Are you insane?!"

"Back door?"

"It’s right by the kitchen! He’ll see you!"

You tiptoed to the bedroom door, cracked it open just enough to listen. You could hear the faint sizzling of something cooking.

Okay. Okay. You could work with this.

You turned back to Bucky. "We can do this. Just—just act casual."

Bucky gave you the most not-casual look ever as you both stumbled toward the hallway. "What the hell does ‘casual’ mean?"

"It means don’t act guilty!"

"Well, I am guilty!"

"Of what?! We didn’t do anything!"

"I don’t know?!" He was borderline hysterically whispering. 

Before you could argue, Bucky suddenly stiffened.

Your stomach dropped. Slowly, with dread pooling in your gut, you turned.

And there your father was.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs. Arms crossed. Watching.

Shit.

“Barnes,” he said. 

Bucky made a noise that was not human, best described as a strangled mix between a squeak and a whimper. His spine locked up so straight it was a miracle he didn’t snap in half.

Your dad looked at you. Then to Bucky. Then calmly, too calmly he asked, “You stayed over?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. All of that jaw movement and still, absolute nothing came out.

You, already in full-blown panic mode, squeaked. “He—he stayed in the guest room!” A blatant, terrible lie.

Bucky nodded so fast it looked like his head might pop off. “Guest room. Yup. Uh—I was gonna go home from the training ground, but the, um—traffic!”

That wasn’t a complete lie.

“…gridlock,” you added weakly. “I had the keys here and… I, um, offered a stay. Can’t have our star boy stuck in training overnight!” You joked weakly, trying to lighten the mood. 

Your dad’s expression remained unreadable.

“That’s very nice of you,” he finally smiled, but you couldn’t tell if it was sincere or not. 

Your knees nearly gave out.

Bucky, sensing his only possible window of escape, inched toward the door like he was sneaking past a sleeping bear. “Well, uh—thank you for the hospitality, sir. I should probably—”

“Oh, nonsense! Any player of mine should stay for breakfast!”

Bucky froze.

You froze.

Your dad, already turning toward the kitchen, utterly oblivious to the horror radiating from both of you, continued, “I’m making waffles. You’re both eating.”

Bucky turned to you, pure fear in his eyes. “Why does this feel like a trap?”

You whispered, “Because it is.”

—

The kitchen had never felt so small.

You and Bucky sat at the long wooden table like criminals waiting for questioning, hands stiff on your laps. Meanwhile, your father hummed as he mixed the batter. Your father never hummed.

You were so, so screwed.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and vanilla filled the air, very deceptively warm and comforting. You should have felt cosy, sitting in the same kitchen where you’d spent countless mornings as a child, where your father had once ruffled your hair and reminded you to eat before school.

But today, was Bucky Barnes sitting beside you, his knee just barely brushing against yours under the table.

“So, Barnes.” Your father finally spoke, pouring batter into the waffle maker. “How’s training been?”

Bucky’s voice cracked. “Good, sir! Strong. Very strongly.  Uh—good preseason. Feeling… fit. Ready. Strong.”

You kicked him under the table, daring him to say strong one more time. 

Your father nodded. “Good, good.” And then, without so much as a glance, he said, “You didn’t stay in the guest room, did you?”

Bucky’s grip tightened around the edge of the table.

“When I got home and saw my daughter’s car and the football outside, I figured I’d check if anyone else was staying the night.”

Your father paused. “You weren’t there,” he narrowed his eyes, pointing a fork at Bucky. “You slept in my daughter’s room.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Your father poked at the batter, checking if it was done.“So. Are you two dating?”

Bucky choked on air.

“Dad!” you yelped, heat flooding your face.

Your father only shrugged, his expression neutral, his movements impossibly calm. “What? It’s a simple question.”

Bucky, hands now frantically tapping the table, started rambling, We—uh—we’re just—”

Your father arched a brow, unamused. “It really shouldn’t be this hard to answer, Barnes.”

Bucky flinched like he’d just been tackled into the ground. After bracing himself, he blurted out, “Yes.”

Your father hummed again (seriously, the humming was unsettling) as he played the waffles.  “I’m not stupid, you know. It’s obvious. That, and Wilson’s been hinting about it for weeks.”

Fucking Sam.

Bucky blinked, though. He was surprisingly calm about this. 

“And you’re okay with that?” You asked sheepishly

“As long as Barnes keeps scoring goals and doesn’t break your heart?” He shrugged, “Sure.”

“So…” Bucky decided it was a good time for a joke. “I don’t have to run out the window?”

Your father chuckled, shaking his head. “I’d rather you not break your legs before the season starts.”

Oh. Okay. 

Your father slid a stack of golden waffles onto both of your plates, pouring syrup over them with far too much exaggeration.

“Eat your waffles, kid.”

And just like that, Bucky Barnes had officially survived meeting your father.

Not as his boss. But as his girlfriend’s dad.

(Barely).

-end.

Extra note : I’m considering doing a part two where Steve gets hired as part of the coaching staff but I don’t know if anyone will read this fic, let alone like it 😭😭😭 I feel like it’s just such a niche audience lol.

General Bucky Taglist :

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi

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.

___

You're So Loved (Happy Birthday, Sweetheart)

Pairing: Doctor!Strange x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: It's Y/n's birthday and Stephen prepares a special dinner

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: None, just fluff.

A/N: I'm so happy for finally being able to post a fic here. It wasn't a piece of cake, since I've been batling writer's block, but I am proud of the result. I Need to be honest and say that this hasn't been proofread, so any typos or grammar mistakes you see just pretend you didn't. Hope you guys enjoy it and have a nice read ;)

You never liked your birthday. For some reason, the date always contributed to intensifying your depressive episodes. For some reason, the beginning of April brought with it an air of melancholy that you attributed solely to the fact that it was the month of your birthday and the reason for this remained unknown. You were not exactly a happy person, but there were so many people in worse situations. Of course, thinking that way did not help.

However, since Stephen had entered your life, you could see a clear improvement in the matter. After you started living with him in the Sanctum, you spent three birthdays with him. The first one was melancholic and you asked him not to give you any presents or celebrations, the second one you had accepted that he would take you out to dinner and in the present year you had not objected at all to the idea of ​​Tony throwing a party at Stark Tower to celebrate your birthday, although as the date approached you wondered if it had been a good idea to give in so much. After all, you knew that things could get a little crazy and grand when you let Tony do whatever he wanted, but at the same time, the fact that he cared about you enough to do that with such affection warmed your heart.

With Stephen, however, you had no idea how you would celebrate or if you would celebrate at all. The big party would be on Saturday night and your actual birthday would be on Tuesday, and Tuesdays were complicated and tiring days at work. Stephen had mentioned dinner, but he had been so busy all week at Kamar Taj that you wondered if he had forgotten, and honestly, you wouldn't blame him if he had. Your birthday was never a topic of conversation between you because that was how you preferred it to be. Deep down, maybe you were afraid that he would question what the matter was, and you wouldn't know how to answer.

Anyway, Monday went by uneventfully and during the night you asked Stephen about his plans for the next day and he replied that he would probably be at Kamar Taj all day sorting out who knows what and you understood that he hadn't really thought of anything different for the occasion. It was better this way, you told yourself. There would be enough celebrating on Saturday. However, you couldn't help but feel a little sad, but in the morning you woke up, took a shower and had your coffee normally and didn't even bother to be disappointed that your boyfriend wasn't home. Stephen always woke up before you and always left the house before you woke up when he had to work. So, you simply grabbed your bag and left for work like any other Tuesday.

...

Stephen was feeling remorseful for not having waited for you to wake up to congratulate you first thing in the morning, but America had convinced him that their plan would be more successful if you thought he had forgotten what day it was. Stephen had a photographic memory, he tried to warn the teenager, he never forgot anything.

"Well, then she'll think you just didn't bother to say happy birthday to her," America had said, rolling her eyes. How that could be a good thing, he couldn't say, but since even Wong had gotten on board with this with unusual enthusiasm, Stephen had agreed to do as America suggested. He woke up in the morning, stroked your hair gently as he watched you sleep soundly for a second, and then left.

Tuesday was boring and tiring at Kamar Taj as usual. He trained the students as he had promised Wong he would, and then devoted himself to preparing for the next mission that he thankfully wouldn't have to participate in. Overall, it was a Tuesday like any other, except that it wasn't. Stephen couldn't stop thinking about you all day. It was like a movie playing in his head, making him remember your moments together.

He remembered perfectly the first kiss, the first time you made love, how you blushed beautifully when he called you sweetheart for the first time and just like that, he knew that would be your pet name. You completely transformed his life and suddenly he stopped being a bitter and resentful man with control issues and became your Stephen, a person he sometimes didn't even recognize, but whom he liked to be much more.

It was safe to say that even his relationship with the Avengers improved after you came into his life. You and Stark were great friends, Stephen had no choice but to live with the billionaire in a more friendly way and that wasn't a bad thing at all. Stephen liked having friends now, he even liked having America as his protégé and all of that was thanks to you. There wasn't much he could say to you that would express how much he loved you, but he tried and would continue to try every day. Especially today.

"Are you ready to go home yet?" America's voice echoed from the distance across the courtyard as he crossed the hall from the library to the dorms while she ran toward him.

He smiled and nodded. "We better go before it gets too late to make dinner." He replied, watching the girl approach. "I don't want her to get home before we've everything sorted out." America nodded.

"There'll be time, relax." And then she slapped her forehead with her hand. "The dress! I completely forgot! I need to go to the store to get it." Stephen shook his head in confusion. "I thought you and Wong had already picked it up yesterday."

She shook her head. "It wasn't her size. The saleswoman had to order it from another store. It arrived this afternoon. We need to go there to get it."

Stephen sighed. "I'll let Wong know we're on our way." When you use portals to get around, everything gets easier. Within 15 minutes, Stephen and America had gone to the store to get your present and were already back home. Without even planning it, they both took a shower and met in the kitchen where Wong was already waiting with all the ingredients already on the balcony.

"What took you so long?" He asked impatiently.

"I hope everything went well at the bakery." Stephen said without bothering to answer and Wong gestured to the refrigerator. When Stephen opened the fridge door, he saw exactly what he expected, a beautiful round cake with white frosting and colorful sprinkles that said "Happy Birthday, sweetheart." He just smiled and closed the door again.

"Did you remember to wrap her present?" Wong asked as if he doubted the answer and Stephen's ability to do it right.

"Yeah. And you? You still haven't told me what you bought for her."

"That's because it's none of your business. You'll see when it's time." He replied. "Now we better start cooking if we want this dinner to be ready on time."

Stephen agreed and simply followed Wong's orders, which were basically washing and chopping ingredients while the Sorcerer Supreme actually cooked. Stephen couldn't argue; he couldn't touch the food if he expected it to be edible.

...

You were starving when you left the office and were caught in a persistent rain. You even thought about stopping by the sandwich bar next door to get some sandwiches to take home, but laziness got the better of you and you ended up giving up. There was always the option of ordering pizza anyway.

It was almost 7pm and if there was any sun it would be setting. The days in April were starting to get longer at this time of the year and some flowers were starting to appear on the trees on Bleecker Street due to the arrival of spring. It was a beautiful time of year indeed and as you walked slowly down the street under your umbrella and saw the Sanctum as a fortress of love and security, you felt happy to be alive and to have that home to return to at the end of each day. When you finally walked through the door that opened by itself as always to let you in, you were greeted by a delicious smell of food that made your stomach growl. It was unusual, really. Unless Wong was home.

"Hi there!" You were welcomed by a baritone voice. "You took your time."

You left the umbrella dripping behind the door and put your bag on the sideboard before getting rid of your coat. "Long and boring day. I thought about buying sandwiches for dinner, but I decided against it." You answered turning to finally look at him and it was then that the feeling of warmth and love intensified even more. He was dressed in dark jeans and a purple shirt, his hair was carefully combed and his goatee perfectly drawn, which indicated that he had taken some time to make it that way.

"You look nice. Any plans for tonight I don't know about?" You asked without trying to be subtle and making him chuckle.

"I always look nice." He answered walking slowly towards you. "And the answer is yes and no, but I'm not going to explain it until you come upstairs with me. Something tells me you need a hot shower."

He finally reached you and touched your face gently before kissing your lips.

"Yes, please." That was all you said on his lips while letting out a little groan. "What a Tuesday!"

He chuckled softly taking your hand in his. "Mine wasn't a piece of cake either, but it's finally over." He nodded leading you upstairs.

After you had showered and spent some time on your post-shower skincare routine, you were ready to get dressed in your most worn and comfortable pajamas, but Stephen just tsked.

"You don't want Wong to see you like this." He warned and you remembered the delicious smell of food you smelled when you got home.

"Did he cook for us?" You asked excited at the idea of ​​eating a proper dinner instead of takeout. Stephen could say whatever he wanted, but you loved Wong's cooking. The Sorcerer Supreme really knew how to cook, in fact he cooked much better than you, but Stephen wasn't ready for that conversation.

Before he could answer, you grabbed a pair of denim shorts and a band t-shirt and got dressed.

"Actually, we cooked for you." Stephen finally confessed with a slight blush on his cheeks. "It all started with America's idea of ​​celebrating your birthday in a low-key way so you wouldn't get mad." He explained. “That was precisely her words”

You smiled from ear to ear. So he hadn't forgotten.

"It was also her idea for me to pretend I forgot it was your birthday today, and she'll probably be mad at me because I should take you downstairs before I tell you, but I couldn't bear to spend another minute of my day without saying it." Then he leaned in close, cupped your face between his shaking hands, and spoke sweetly, "Happy birthday, sweetheart." Before he could say anything else, you had your arms around his neck and pulled him abruptly into a kiss that started out casual and soon became intense and full of saliva and teeth.

"I really thought you forgot!" You confessed, letting out a relieved chuckle. "I don't know what got into me this year, but I spent the whole day thinking it was my birthday and that we should do something about it."

He pinched your cheek teasingly, "I happened to you."

You hummed, "Well, I can't refute that." You responded, pulling him back into your arms. lips in a kiss that lasted until you were interrupted by an incessant knocking on the door.

"Are you guys coming down or what?" America's voice sounded slightly irritated, which made you laugh softly.

"I think you better pretend to be surprised, or she'll kill me." Stephen whispered.

"We're going now." You replied.

When you went down to the dining room - you with the best surprised face you could muster - the table was set beautifully and the candlesticks, never used since you started attending the Sanctum, were lit with candles that seemed to give off a slightly musky scent, but that perfectly matched the delicious smell coming from the kitchen. Wong was finishing the last details and when he saw you, he opened a rare smile.

"Oh my... I can't believe you went to all that trouble!" You exclaimed sincerely.

"You didn't really think we forgot, did you?" He joked, coming towards you and, to your surprise, hugging you. You felt your cheeks turning slightly pink, but you surrendered to the hug, feeling your chest fill with joy and warmth.

"To be honest, I thought everyone had forgotten." You confessed when Wong stepped away and gently pulled out your chair for you to sit down. Stephen smiled ironically, as if he was surprised by his friend's gallantry and maybe even a little jealous, but he said nothing and just pulled out his own chair and sat next to you.

"I think I spent so much time asking people to ignore my birthday that I ended up being afraid that it had actually been ignored this year."

Wong smirked, pointing at all the food placed in front of you. "As you can see, it wasn't. We spent a lot of time thinking about each dish we would make, and we trust that Strange knows what he's talking about because he was the one who chose the menu saying that these are your favorite foods."

You smiled, looking at the food in front of you. Nothing matched, it was just a pile of your favorite foods and somehow you found it much more incredible than if it had been a perfectly prepared menu. There was a basket with fries and some sauces next to it. There was a dish with lasagna Bolognese and another with cannelloni in white sauce. They also roasted what looked like a pork leg and with it there was mashed potatoes, rice, salad and stroganoff. There was definitely enough food to serve about 20 people easily.

"Stephen and I helped Wong prepare everything." America said sitting down and smiling proudly. "Actually I was the one who thought of everything, all the good ideas. Stephen helped, of course. He thinks he knows you so much better than me just because you've known each other longer..."

"Four years longer than you, actually," he teased.

"As I was saying..." She started shooting daggers at him again. "I thought of the best things and even remembered the fries. But overall we didn't do much, Wong got us to do the meson place, the good stuff was on his hands."

"Years and years of practice," Wong said proudly, pulling out his own chair and sitting down as well. "Besides, I needed to make sure you two didn't burn anything."

America rolled her eyes at him and then turned her attention back to you. "Is everything how you like it?"

You smiled. "Of course it is. I just don't know if I'll be able to eat everything you guys prepared."

"Eat whatever you like best," Stephen suggested, taking your plate. "Can I serve you?"

You nodded, noticing that his hands weren't shaking and you knew he was using magic to keep them steady. God forbid he spilled anything that night. Not that you would care, but he would never forgive himself if he did. "What do you want, first?"

You thought for a minute. "I'll start with the fries and the stroganoff. They go together somehow. And to drink... as much as I appreciate the choice of a good wine..."

"She'll have a diet Coke with me." America finished and you winked at her.

Stephen rolled his eyes. "I spent a good fifteen minutes in the wine cellar choosing this wine."

"Well, I'm sure I'll enjoy it properly," Wong said, opening the bottle and pouring himself a full glass of the red wine. He raised the glass to his nose and inhaled deeply before taking a sip. "I really deserve this after the week I've had."

"It's only Tuesday." Stephen said, placing the plate back in front of you. He was clearly going to start serving America, but the teenager was in too much of a hurry to wait and began serving herself, putting a little bit of everything on her plate and carefully assembling a pyramid of food.

"You're going to get a stomachache." Stephen warned as he began to serve himself, but America just shrugged.

Wong helped himself too and soon you guys engaged in a heated conversation about which dish was the best and in the midst of all the silly talk, while eating and laughing like a family, you found yourself thinking that what made you want to celebrate your birthday was that you felt like you belonged to a real family now. Stephen, Wong and America were your family and there was nothing more incredible than spending time with them.

"Just a little bit" Stephen insisted, indicating that you try the roast pork, but you grimaced and refused.

"I feel like I'm going to explode if I eat any more." You confessed "I'm sure it will be good for dinner tomorrow. In fact, I thought we could save some for tomorrow's dinner and make some lunch boxes with the rest to send to the compound. What do you guys think?"

Wong nodded, wiping his lips and finishing what must have been his fourth or fifth glass of wine. "That's a great idea. The food is good, I'd hate for anything to go to waste."

"The lasagna will stay." Stephen demanded as he poured himself another piece of it. "This is extremely delicious."

You couldn't help but smile as you watched him eat. There must have been something about watching your man eat because you found it extremely cute and sexy.

"Okay, the lasagna will stay." You said, bringing your napkin up to his chin to wipe a drop of sauce off his goatee, which made him blush slightly.

...

Stephen smiled broadly as you listened to America explaining the feeling of entering the mirror dimension for the first time and you knew that he saw himself in each new discovery of hers, that as Wong had pointed out several times, he saw himself in America and he liked that. Stephen always told you that you had made him a better man, but you couldn't take all the credit for his growth as a person, America had a big part in that. It was after she arrived that he finally lost his fear of being loved and even though he didn't talk about it, you knew that America was a kind of replacement for the little sister he lost.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to clear the table." Wong announced with a pompous gesture with his fingers and everything simply disappeared. You didn't even question the physics of it anymore, you were just grateful that their magic saved you from having to wash so many dishes.

"Is it time yet?" America asked impatiently and Stephen shook his head.

"What are you two up to?" You asked curiously and Stephen just laughed softly, standing up.

"Trust me, you'll like it. But first, I hope you have saved some place for the dessert." He said, making his own pompous gesture with his fingers and a beautiful cake materialized in front of you. It was round, full of colorful sprinkles and on it was the words "Happy birthday, sweetheart" with a single lit candle.

Before you could process the fact that this was the first birthday cake you had since you became an adult, Stephen, America and Wong started singing 'happy birthday to you' as out of tune as possible and before you knew it, you were crying, but you were also laughing and smiling, and it was undeniable that you were happy.

"Make a wish" America asked before you blew out the candle. "I wish..." You began, but were interrupted by Stephen.

"It needs to be a secret or it won't come true."

You nodded, closing your eyes and thinking about your wish with all your might, and then you blew out the candle.

You definitely shouldn't have eaten the second piece of cake, but it was so good that it was impossible to deny it, and besides, there would always be the next day to make up for the excess calories, right? America, on the other hand, didn't seem worried about the calories she had consumed, but thinking about the amount of strength training that Stephen and Wong were subjecting her to, added to the fact that she was a teenager in full physical development, you knew there was no real reason for her to worry about it, and so she devoured the fourth slice quickly before looking at Stephen with her pleading eyes.

"Come on, it's time." She almost begged impatiently. Wong smirked, finishing his own slice of cake.

"Well, I guess it really is time. We have to go back to Kamar Taj after all."

You had moved your chair away from the table enough so that you could sit sideways in it and rest your back against Stephen's chest who was sitting right behind you. The excess sugar and carbohydrates were starting to kick in and you felt slightly sleepy.

"What exactly are you guys up to?" You asked interestedly. Somehow you knew that whatever it was had to do with you. America smiled broadly at Stephen, but it was Wong who answered and with a simple gesture of his fingers, a large, old and heavy book appeared in the air and fell into your lap.

"Oh my god, what is this?" You asked sitting up straight and picking up the book and placing it on the table to look at it. It had a reddish leather cover and gold lettering that read "The magic and mystery of the New York Sanctum."

"It tells the story of the Sanctum, its mysteries, peculiarities, rooms and secret passages, as well as the great events that happened here." Wong said proudly. "Theoretically it should belong to the master of the Sanctum, but since we agreed that the one who really runs the house is you, I decided that you should keep it. It is a humble gift, but of extreme value and it is also a way of saying that you are part of our world."

You couldn't help but feel emotional with those words. Since the beginning, you always wanted to be accepted and welcomed by Wong and you indeed got what you wanted and much more. You had his friendship. "This is... I don't even know what this is..." You found yourself whispering as your fingers caressed the cover of the book because your voice refused to come out.

"A small demonstration of my affection for you, Y/n. Happy birthday and thanks for making Strange a lot less unpleasant." Wong said with a smile at you that turned into a teasing smirk.

"You can compliment her without offending me, you know?" Stephen complained to which Wong shrugged.

"Sure, but it wouldn't be the same."

"Okay, now it's my turn!" America said, butting in. "Remember when we went to the mall and you were eyeing that dress?"

You put your hand over your mouth in disbelief when America made a white box materialize in front of you on the table. "No!"

"Yes!" She answered so excitedly that it seemed like the gift was for her. "I didn't understand why you didn't buy it, but after Stephen told me that Tony was having a party to celebrate your birthday, I knew you had to go dressed in it."

"But it was too expensive! That's why I didn't buy it."

"Well, I had some savings saved up and know that neither Stephen nor Wong had to give a dime to it. It's all me." She said proudly.

You opened the box, removing the silk and finally looking at the beautiful pink dress inside. "Argh, I hate you, kid! Come here, give me a hug."

America's smile widened as she walked around the table and ran to hug you.

"You're my best friend, Y/n."

"Oh, and you're mine."

The two of you were interrupted by Stephen clearing his throat exaggeratedly. "I think it's my turn now."

America stuck her tongue out at him and returned to her seat.

"Well, what could it be?" You teased and he smirked. "I heard you like this particular band, so I thought you might like this..." He moved his fingers and a beautiful vinyl of the album X by Cigarettes After Sex appeared in his hand. He didn't bother to wrap it, but there was a small red bow around the object.

You took the vinyl from his hands in a not-so-delicate way and a soft squeal escaped your lips, such was your ecstasy. "Oh my... there were only 500 copies, how did you..."

"Turn it over to see the back." He instructed proudly and when you did so you almost fell out of your chair. In beautiful script written in silver permanent marker it said "To you, Y/n, with all my love, Greg."

Your jaw dropped and you stared at Stephen and then at the vinyl and then at Stephen again and then at the vinyl trying to believe that this was real. "How..."

"Too much coercion and threats." America said teasingly and Stephen glared at her.

"He likes the Avengers. I promised I'd get him an autograph from Captain America."

You couldn't help but laugh "You're kidding."

He shook his head "I swear. But tell me, did you like it?"

You wrapped the vinyl in an awkward tight hug "What do you think?"

Stephen smirked "I think I deserve a kiss." He said holding your face in his hands and pulling you to his lips.

"Ew." You heard America complain, but at that moment, you didn't care.

"I think that's our cue. Shall we go?!" You heard Wong say as they stood up.

...

"I still can't believe everything they did for me tonight." You said still amazed by the incredible night they had given you.

You and Stephen were lying on the couch in the living room and Wong and America had just left back to Kamar Taj. The TV was on, and you had put on a random horror movie to play, but it was safe to say that neither you nor Stephen were giving a damn about the seemingly bizarre scenes on the screen.

Your bodies were so close that you could feel the heat emanating through Stephen's comfortable clothes, your legs were comfortably intertwined, and your ear was glued to his chest so you could hear the soft beating of his heart and that was the most beautiful sound in the world to you.

"You deserve everything we did and even more." Stephen answered after a minute of silence. His arms were tightly around your body, and he caressed your arms absentmindedly. "You are so loved, Y/n. Not only by me, but by everyone around you. There is something about you that is impossible not to like."

You smiled to yourself hearing those words. They seemed so foreign to you. As someone who grew up with the feeling of rejection rooted within you, it was difficult to receive love or simply understand it as something positive. For a long time you were afraid to love or be loved for fear of losing it.

"Thank you for loving me." You said simply and Stephen kissed your forehead affectionately.

"It's not like it's something hard to do." He joked.

"I spent my whole life thinking the opposite. I always saw myself as someone unlovable. You, Wong, America, Tony and all my Avengers friends showed me that wasn't true and I'm very grateful for that." You confessed, raising your head to look at him.

Stephen was so beautiful. You would never get used to the beauty of those cheekbones and that jaw, much less the color of his eyes and that goatee. The combination of all the details took your breath away every time you looked at him the way you were looking at him now.

"I love it when you look at me like that." He said smirking as if he could read your mind.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm the most important person in your life."

You smile, resting your chin on his chest. "But you are. I love you, Doctor Stephen Strange."

He smiled broadly, cupping your cheek. "And I you." He paused to think for a moment and then asked, "Can I ask what your wish was?"

You had to force your mind out of the trance his gaze had put you in and only then did you realize what he was talking about. "I thought it had to be a secret."

"I won't tell anyone." He said, smirking and making your heart flutter.

"I wished that you would stay in my life forever. That nothing would ever take the three of you away from me." You finally confessed and his smirk gave way to a sweet, open smile.

"You are so loved, sweetheart. I'm sorry the world made you think otherwise, but we are here every day to change that, to make this stubborn, anxious little head of yours understand that you are special.”

"I always feel special when I'm with you."

"Thank goodness because you are. I love you and again, Happy birthday." He said pulling you to his lips and just like that all your doubts, anxiety and tiredness of the day disappeared.

Reblog please! Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! I will love to read all of your comments and opinions. It inspires me to keep writing!

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Last golden thoughts

Bucky Barnes x fem!exwife reader

*follows the original thunderbolts plot line and thunderbolts!Bucky

Warnings: minor spoilers, mild swearing, angst?

Word count: 4.7k+

summary: Congressman Barnes’ marriage did not end for the better only for his paths to cross again with his ‘wife’ in the most unpleasant fashion where he last expected her to be

an: you guys went crazy over this so I had to finish this in two days we are sooooooo back

—

​As red guardian’s fancy, gaudy and however bulletproof-ish limousine made a flip at Bucky’s detonator. The relieved group of delinquents inside were overcome with shock, bracing themselves for the fall, gripping handles tightly as the surprisingly present airbags opened in their faces. Ghost was the first one out evidently being more equipped to exit in the blink of an eye. Others fell with a thud a collective ache in everyone’s joints, groaning trying to find their way out ever so impatiently. Ghost broke the door open as Bucky was getting closer. In the front seat red guardian needed most strength to be extracted out of the vehicle.

By then Bucky had reached with a task at hand, Ava and Yelena focused more on trying to get red guardian out, “Not cool man” Alexei said in his heavy accent to the long haired who they’d assumed was here to help them.

With a swift tug with his metal arm Bucky pulled the backseat door right off its hinges, before he could lean John was already on his way out, the person following John out made his eyes widen. “You?!” He exclaimed putting his hands on her shoulders instinctively but she brushed him off and got out herself. “Have you lost your mind?! Don’t tell me you were in the goddamn vault with these-“

Standing up on her feet instantly, trying to regain balance given her vision was a bit dizzy after going through a flipping car. “You lunatic-“ she lunged at him but she was still evidently dizzy and had weak steps, he easily dodged. “You could have gotten us all killed!”

“Stop, stop!” Bucky’s hands were surprisingly of a gentle grip on her shoulders yet again, wanting her to find her footing again. “Are you alright?” He asked scanning for major injuries, if he had known she was in the car he would approached in a way less reckless way.

“Get off of me-!” Taken aback by his might to just downplay the weight of the situation, falling into old habits like they were getting reunited or something.

“Husband mode eh?” Alexei commented with a snicker, Bucky took it well, someone else didn’t.

“He’s not my husband!” She barked almost instantly and pushed Bucky even further, even after he’d let go off her shoulders.

Another truck circled around them, “With me” Bucky told them expecting them to follow without much resistance was really some heavy wishful thinking.

The red guardian was already walking, a lot of faith in the metal armed man when Yelana stoped him by his arm, “And why should we just follow you after you crashed us?”

“Bucky you do realise you could get years for attempted murder on captain America-“ Jon was stopped mid sentence by the others taking an offence at him calling himself captain America and less bothered by the attempted murder.

“You were all being chased by trucks with machine guns and I’m sure more are on the way. This is the middle of nowhere if you have better options than getting in the truck you’re all very welcome to do so” Bucky said crossing his arms, the truck driver probably one of bucky’s favour agents got on his bike and left the truck for him.

Red guardian was the first to pitch in to agree with him, Yelena and Ava had their suspicions. “It’s the worse of two I suppose” Ava said with a sigh.

“It’s not like you have anything on us and we outnumber you so there’s that.” Yelana started walking as the rest followed, no obvious threat so far.

“If it’s our help you need Bucky you know you can just ask.” Walker said with his ever high confidence in himself, it never fails to be less staggering.

“Are you people actually considering this?!” Y/n was the only one who stayed put in her place not trusting everyone’s and especially bucky’s instincts to follow him into god knows where, “We can’t trust this man-“

“‘This man’ honey? Really?” Bucky quoted her absolute disregard for their history like he was some stranger she detested so much. He wasn’t walking back to the truck either, well aware of stubborn she was he was ready to let this play out for a while and eventually take matters, her, quite literally into his own hands.

“Don’t call me that!” The disgust on her face was as though he had committed at atrocity, the others had already started accommodating themselves in the truck for her to get her point across.

“You know all this anger really isn’t good for your health.” He told her, leaning a bit forward and she stiffened.

“You know what would be good for you? Letting me be” she told him uncrossing her arms and the last of her ‘loser’fest team were already walking into the truck.

“Why would you get yourself into this mess? You know you are better than this and please don’t tell me you were in the vault” it felt so natural to fall back into old habits for Bucky. The soft scolding with an undertone of concern and frustration. He didn’t miss this feeling of dread that he was yet again so close to losing her but he was grasping at straws into conversations with her, after the divorce she had blocked his number, locked their old apartment just recently because he kept finding reasons to visit her over and over. Even stopped all streaming subscriptions he couldn’t even work through without her so if this was the conversation he could make he’d take what he can get.

“You are the last person I’m answerable to.” She clarified him losing his keeping tabs privileges on her as their marriage fell. It was the least pleasant feeling to be harsh against anyone, even him, despite of what he did. But if it she acted even a bit less colder it would give him hope to no end. So she kept it up and walked across him, he stayed unmoving from her way and her shoulder brushed his somewhat rudely she didn’t even account it. He felt good about her casually striding against him as if his touch didn’t repel her anymore. Idiot.

Before she could climb into the back of the truck with the rest of them he stopped her getting inside himself first and swiftly started cuffing everyone, “hey what the hell” Yelena said struggling against him but those high tech binds were so swift she couldn’t retaliate in enough time.

“Come on Bucky you know me is this really necessary?” John scoffed trying to break free of the cuffs but or was no use.

“She was right” Ava said nodding at the woman standing outside the truck unfazed Bucky would pull this, trying to make the run for it into ghost mode but the cuffs kept her hands in place so she couldn’t even move forward in her projecting form.

“You, in the front” Bucky said looking back at her and she obviously defied it.

“Why?” She scoffed not wanting to walk into his plan after he literally cuffed all her acquaintances. “We are not your little evidential gifts against Valentina”

“She did try to kill you all” Red guardian chimed in as Yelena nodded about the fact.

“It doesn’t align with our principles if he is the one who turns us in, we could do it ourselves” the fact that ‘Congressman Barnes’ would get all credit for brining Valentina’s assets in after they risked their lives to get out really didn’t sit right with her.

“Why would we turn ourselves in at all?” Ava questioned not really into the idea of getting under oath whatsoever.

“Exactly. It is up to us what we decide not him” So glad the others saw her point at least now, despite of walking into getting themselves tied up.

“It really isn’t” he shrugged and pointed to another one of automobiles from vault’s base at a far distance. “Say no and I’d leave you all here to fend for yourself.” No one but her would be ready to call his bluff. He knew that she knew that too well that he would rather fight off nearly everyone in that truck than put her in harm’s way but he had to convince the others somehow and it seemed to work well enough as he got out of the back container to get into the driver’s seat.

“Why doesn’t she get tied up?” John questioned as she had to walk to the passenger seat on Bucky’s uncalled for demand.

“She is the missus!” Red guardian said stating the obvious and a shrug, already under the cool influence of Bucky to question it.

“They’re divorced” John pointed out

“Doesn’t seem like it was mutual” Yelena commented gaining a snicker from Alexei.

-

In the front, looking out the window as Bucky pushed it on the accelerator, “Where are we going?”

“New York” he answered her without much debate or resistance, if he were to recall there was never a time he could lie to her. He would never want to.

She didn’t have much questions to ask because she didn’t want to give answers to the ones he would ask back, not without consulting the rest anyways. Besides she would rather turn herself in than to afford another conversation with him. With a heavy sigh she looked out the window crossing her arms.

He looked in her direction, eyes softening despite the gravity of the situation they were in. The exhaust on her face was evident, “There are some pain killers in the cabinet.” He told her.

No response for her equated to her disinterest in taking them, he knew she hated any sort of antibiotics or meds just to push through her pain but it was worth the shot, as stubborn as she was he hates her open wounds. He opened the cabinet and got out the patching kit, whilst his other hand was still on the steering wheel. He opened the pack between his teeth and applied antiseptic on the patches, without asking he put it on her forehead where she’s seemed to have taken a bad hit. “Ow” she grumbled in pain but needless to say it was a required patchwork for the bleeding. “I’ve got it” she said taking it from his hand on her forehead into her own.

Her palms against his arm…he hadn’t felt it in so long. His hand was much larger in her comparison he’d always noted that. Being reminded of that again made him want to intertwine his fingers in hers and hope she could undo every moment he had to be away from her.

Eventually he took his hand away and put it on the driving clutch, even though it wasn’t a manual drive, he just couldn’t contain the life coursing through him after her hands touched him against. It’s these minuscule of interactions with her that gave him so much purpose. At first when he saw her in the flipped car he felt awful she was here in the first place but now he has her right next to him on the road to New York and he feels bad for wishing the miles are longer than they usually are.

“Hey this is not a manual drive” she was quick to pick that up when he didn’t take his hand off the clutch for a while being lost in thought, unrecovered from her touch.

“Oh” he nodded taking his hand off and back to the steering, “I know” he had to shift the conversation “You practised on our old manual when you were renewing your license right?”

“Your old manual was a good car” she said emphasising on ‘your’ given the fall out.

“I wonder why we let it go.” He was left bemused trying to remember what was the reason to let it go given it wasn’t a bad car.

“You wanted to let it go because it was taking up too much space in the garage after the engine got way too old to be repaired” She reminded him thinking back to it now, it had become an old junk but the two of them held onto it for quite a while. Working on it on the weekends, basically he’d work on it and she would keep the conversation. She had a joke that Bucky was pursuing his abandoned mechanic dream every weekend on that car, that black sleeveless vest top laying his biceps all bare and as hot as he was working on the engine she hated the grime and the smell of automobile oil, he would purposely encage her between his arms and kiss her all over, then shower together later. Snap out of it.

“Had a good run with it, it even had a cassette player system” Bucky looked at her but she wasn’t looking back at him. Clearing her throat she shifted in her seat, they got rid of that car before they had a conversation of getting rid of their marriage but maybe the forthcoming was evident.

“It didn’t have that you modified it that way because we had a lot of cassettes between us” she corrected him as her lips curled into a small smile.

“Oh right” he nodded mirroring her smile, it just happened with him involuntarily every time she smiled and this was his first time in a while. “I think I lost some from my set, I maybe have 10-12 tapes left which is crazy given my set had about a 100”

“How would you lose them you never took them out of the house?” She asked with a faux confused look on her face.

“Exactly! It’s like they just vanished” he told her shaking his head, “I think the house needs a bit going over for me to find them”

Just humming in response she leaned back in the seat as the two fell into silence again, it wasn’t comfortable but it wasn’t awkward either. Nostalgia was often ugly. Their minds were going through ugly sweet things, Bucky’s mind wasn’t going through nostalgia it was in its usual state: consistent reminiscing of their marriage. In his life he didn’t have much things to lose in the first place except for her, she was the last golden thoughts he could have before he’d sleep and the first before he’d wake up all day, everyday. He didn’t have much to think back to fondly but it changed when she walked out of his life.

As he drove through the terrains, glancing through both the side view mirrors then back at her, she had fallen asleep. Leaning against the window, her eyes closed with a completely serene expression on her face he hadn’t seen in so long. She had actually fallen asleep around him. The scene had a strange intimacy to him, the fact that her mind still considered him safe enough to fall asleep around. Even after all dodged calls and messages, all the get-outs, changing her ways to not come across him in the city, telling everyone her mistrust in ‘this man’ yet she could fall asleep with him at the wheel just like the old times.

When they reached the abandoned safe house Bucky didn’t deem it proper to wake her up when she was already so exhausted. The others tied up and over explaining the Bob situation did not let her absence go unnoticed “What did you do with her?!” Ava asked, high suspicions it wasn’t good.

“We should have listened when she told us to be careful about you, he probably left her back there” Yelena said with a scoff, such a decorated man stooping so low.

“Woah woah” Bucky was crazed at the fact that these people assumed that he would hurt her, of all people. “She is still in the truck, she was sleeping very soundly so I didn’t want to wake her up.”

The red guardian snickered, “A real lover!” He commented in a positive way.

“Grow a pair, Bucky” John scoffed leaning against his binds, the man was on the phone for a while and would’ve happily disregarded Walked’s comments anyways.

“Are you like the podcast men?” Alexei asked facing Walker.

“—What does that mean?”

“Toxic masculinity, not good, insecure—bad just bad, are you them?” Alexei listed off his

very accurate descriptions of men who run podcasts.

“Men who run podcasts aren’t all that” Walker said rolling his eyes at the man’s poor judgement of those guys. “Besides Bucky is not a real lover, he’s freshly divorced”

“Do you not see the wedding ring?” Alexei asked nudging in bucky’s direction, the thick gold band was hard to miss: by anyone.

“Probably just wears it because it’s real gold or something” which was a bit ironic because even as a separated husband he didn’t have one on.

“On his wedding finger?” Ava asked raising a brow as she indulged in the divorce too, tied up they had nothing better to talk about.

Before Yelena could pitch in her two cents too, Bucky got off the phone and started freeing the set of ‘thunderbolts’ out of their ties. Giving them a brief explanation of wanting to help Bob they were all on board, as they headed back down to the truck, it was empty. The back and the front, the highly trained ex assassin went full into visible panic mode with her out of sight. A specific drop of his heart only her absence could cause him to feel.

It was difficult trying to explain to the bunch of all-of-a-sudden-ride-or-dies god knows where she picked up from, that her husband of three years and counting with a small bump of divorce of four months would be the last person in this world to hurt her. However difficult it was he managed to get his point across and decided they were off to a detour before getting to Valentina’s HQs.

Once they loaded back in the truck he drove with determination to get where he had deduced he would find her. Their old apartment, she kept her original gear there. If there was one thing he knew about her she was to never back down from a fight, however big and impossible. That had been his biggest fright throughout their marriage, not a single bone in his body had moved on from.

Bucky thought he could fetch her back down himself but he thought wrong, apparently they did not trust him with her so all or thunderbolts went up the six story building. As expected the door was open, “How many times have I told you to keep this locked?” It really wasn’t difficult to fall back into old habits. Always leaving in a hurry, always forgetting to lock doors. He thought to himself but it wasn’t just about locking the door when he hoped the door was open.

“Again?!” She exclaimed walking out of the bedroom into the living fixing the belts around her gear, her old gear. The most trusted one. It was a superstition of hers really, Bucky knew it affected nothing no combat flexibility or space…it was just old. “How did you all not manage to lose him?”

“We didn’t know if you left or he did something” Ava filled her in about her doubting their capabilities to lose Bucky by choice.

“He wouldn’t.”

“—I wouldn’t!”

Both of them said at the same time.

To avert the sync she refocused on strapping her knives into her suit, in all places and possible belt gaps. “Hey, is that mine?” Bucky’s attention went to the set of two in her hands she was about to fixate.

“No it’s not.” Caught, she hurriedly tried to wrap it in her suit.

“Yes it is, those are mine!” He huffed; it had been a long while since he had to be in a position where he would need all his knives but he remembers and counts all the ones he’s had and he knew exactly which ones were missing, surprisingly right after the divorce. “That set is a wedding gift from Sam if I remember correctly!”

“Exactly! It was my wedding too I can keep them!” She stood her ground, well aware it was a set of two, one for him&her type but it was too beautiful to break the set and she wanted both those knives. He hadn’t noticed it this entire time.

“You don’t get to keep them both I get to keep one.” He argued, validly so. “I can’t believe you just took these both with you letting me know once”

“You never asked! All this time you kept coming at my place for the pillow covers, cushions-literally last month you knocked on my door because you thought I took the tv remote with me! You never asked about these” she pointed at the knives and somewhere along the lines both of them knew Bucky was just finding reasons to see her again and she was allowing it too.

“Wow” Yelena commented at the desperate measure. Given the time they were short on this bickering was too intresting to be stopped abruptly.

In the haste to keep the knives to herself in her suit dropped it, giving Bucky the leverage to pick it up and examine it. He bent down to get it and found stored cassettes in the coffee table. “You have got to be kidding me!” He exclaimed frustrated as he got out all the cassettes, he thought were missing. “You had these the whole time?!”

“—I must have packed them by mistake when I moved out” she shrugged trying to downplay how purposeful it was but he saw through it.

“These are all my classics, you didn’t even ask me before taking them in the settlement?!” Bucky huffed going through the tapes.

Cursing under her breath she face palmed herself, for some reason this day was getting way too long. “Look I know the divorce agreement never said-“

“I didn’t even read that” Bucky scoffed shuffling through the tapes he thought he had ‘lost.’

“You signed it without reading?” Surprised she raised her brows.

He put the box down on the coffee table and nodded with a shrug, making a mental note that he will come by at her place over and over for all the tapes and not just take them altogether. There were around 93 tapes in there which belonged to him. 93 excuses to see her. “It was you, I just trust you.”

“See!” Alexei cackled giving Walker a big pat on his back for being right about the lovers fact. “Very silver springs”

“Silver springs?” Yelena asked raising her brows at the refrence.

“Like the song.” Alexei spoke with his thick accent ‘Like zhe songh’ “Never get away from the sound of a woman that loved you” he even relayed the lyrics from the group, Ava nodding at the obvious relation.

“He still wears the wedding ring though” Yelena pointed out trying to frame the dynamics of who’s who for the song reference.

“He would be Stevie Nicks.” Ava clarified stating the obvious as Alexei smiled wide at her, nothing like someone getting the perfect reference.

“What the hell?” The ex wife in question did not take that insult lightly, she didn’t point it out all these months why he still kept wearing the wedding ring. “Real good manipulation tactics, Congressman Barnes.”

“I didn’t even say anything!” Bucky exclaimed unsure how he got under the bus even though the Silver Springs refrence say very right with him. Eire how that refrence came up when no one knew he’s been having sessions of that song in his car ever since she left.

“You need to take off that wedding ring and the whole oh-she-left-me boo hoo theatrics like it wasn’t a mutual decision!” She let out unable to keep it in after these months of heartbroken yet preserving congressman Barnes, all the press issues.

“You know it wasn’t.” Bucky shot back, “I just didn’t want to you to work for Valentina and look what you’re gearing up for! The woman who tried to incinerate you!”

“It was a miscalculation of the job I took up and I got myself alive out of that” it was so frustrating trying to debate this again.

“You chose working for her over me! Over our marriage!” Bucky’s voice grew a bit louder than when he said before and the others just witnessed this break out awkwardly.

“Shouldn’t we let them have this conversation privately?” John muttered looking for the cue to exit this scene.

“No.” Alexei, regardless of his fanboy tendencies towards Barnes, he was somewhat interested in witnessing this, he was the least tensed person in the room. Ava and Yelena didn’t want to exit for the sake of interjecting just in case.

“No I chose a life you couldn’t dictate!” She cried out just as intensely as his voice. “And do not put this on me as if you don’t know what you did.”

“I saved your life that day. Just like today.” Bucky said in a lower voice flatly. Very unbothered and cold to the notion of saving her life, it was such a given to him. She would put herself in such situations and he would just have to make do. Reckless with not much thought but he could always rely on himself to keep that head over her shoulder.

“You put me in danger that day!” The agony in her voice was so evident, “You let me work on that assignment for months and on the final day—you leaked my coordinates on purpose so that Congressmen Barnes can have the best packet, you wanted to Valentina dragged to court and you got that at my expense.”

Putting his arms on his hips; taking in a deep breath. It was planned yes, he gave the feds her location for the OXE group mission she was put on, he could have told her to never take up the job but it had already led to so many countless fights. She had helped him through his electoral campaigns, supported him through it all but it just wasn’t the right fit for her. Combat was all she had known life to be so far, so her let her have her gigs. However he didn’t realise she could also work for Valentina without much thought and by the time he could pitch in she had already accepted the joke. He could have stopped it then too, but he didn’t. There was a bigger gig for him in it, exposing his wife’s secret assignment is how he got Valentina into impeachment proceedings.

Bucky wasn’t proud of keeping it a secret from her the entire time she was working on that assignment but it didn’t prove to be non fruitful, “I am the one who had to bear the expense of you leaving because you didn’t have it in yourself to stay, you just ran. Like a coward. Like always.”

That was a poke at a really old wound, she wasn’t a habitual leaver but at times when stuff got emotionally thick her fight or flight response was not fight. The first time, before they were even together…she always stayed away and distant and after their job was done, Sam upholding the shield. She just left. Leaving everything between Bucky and herself to be unsaid and be lost in fragments of season he just went after her, got the girl and the resr was history. Wretched, domestic, sad, far, a marriage in their history. However she couldn’t stomach that, “You piece of shit-!” She lunged at him full force and he barely held up his defence. More than happy for her to have at it.

“Woah woah woah” Walker spoke as chaos erupted in the small living room itself, not even out in the field yet.

Yelena got a hold of her however Ava wasn’t into the idea of not letting her get her frustration out, Alexei pulled back away, “We are the thunderbolts. Thunderbolts don’t fight ourselves. Not like this.” He said as the fight seemed to break.

“I am no teammates with any of you, especially that man!“ anger still coursing through her she pointed at Bucky as Yelena kept swaying her farther.

“Yeah yeah I think he gets it” Yelena tried to soothe her anger down so he could move on from this outburst.

“Can we just move on with the task at hand?” Before John could even finish that sentence Bucky was walking out the apartment broodingly, slamming the door open out of his way.

She stayed in her place taking in a few deep breaths in order to process it fast enough as everyone left, Yelena stayed with her, nodding off to red guardian in a small look that said ‘I’ve got her.’ “You okay?”

“-Yeah…let’s just get going.”

-

Please let me know if this story is a drag…for some reason it seemed better in my head than this! Regardless tune in for final two if you liked it! ;)

tags: @blowingbarnes @pattiemac1 @scrumptiousloser @suffragette-cities @toaster-fork @accoochtrement @forthelovelyheart @western-nightss @itsmeamysworld @taniamunson @dakota-rain666 @seventeen-x @bvckys-doll