Gorgeous Ll Bucky Barnes X Reader

Haiii

yeah I write 100 word analysis posts about my favourite fictional guy. yeah I ship him with another man from his franchise. yeah I have 1k edits of him in a tiktok folder and read x reader fanfiction about him. we exist.

hi, girly girl ♡♡♡

i’m re-reading your grumpy!bucky x sunshine!reader series (bc of course i am) and i was wondering, if you’re taking requests, what your thoughts are about:

💭 something happening to sunshine!reader, during a mission or something else, and she’s emotional (maybe hurt) and frantically asking for bucky. cue extra-protective!grumpy!bucky.

k love u bye

hi, babe :))

it started out as thoughts and I worked it into a lil something something

love you more <3

You came? You called.

Pairing: Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Avenger! Fem! Reader (Grumpy x Sunshine)

Summary: The team’s brightest light shatters after a mission gone wrong, and only one person can put her back together.

Bucky Barnes :)

Word Count: Roughly 900 words 

Warnings: Fluff, hurt/comfort, mild injuries mentioned (barely), mentions of blood, overprotective and soft Bucky, physical and emotional distress, a lil bit of angst (but just a pinch)

Author’s Note: I don't know where I was going with this, but I tried :(

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Divider by: @strangergraphics

You’re not supposed to cry.

You're supposed to sparkle. 

You're supposed to laugh like you’ve never tasted bitterness, bounce off the walls like gravity never quite applied to you, and leave glitter bombs and rainbow cupcakes in your wake. 

You're the sunshine of the team, the chaos incarnate with fingers covered in icing from baking every other day, held together by too much energy and not enough fear.

But right now, you’re sobbing, shaking so hard it rattles your bones.

The safe house is too quiet. 

Too sterile. 

You hate the quiet.

Your world is made of giggles and explosions and yelling at Tony for calling you “a walking serotonin factory,” like it’s not the biggest compliment ever.

Steve’s kneeling next to you, his voice is soft, words calm and even, like a warm blanket. 

Nat’s crouched just behind him, her clothes smeared with blood that’s not hers. You know what that means. She already got them, the ones who hurt you.

But none of that matters.

You want him.

“Bucky,” you whisper softly, the name tumbling out between hiccups.

Steve tries to soothe you. “He’s coming, sunshine. He’s on his way.”

But that only makes it worse. It hurts, how badly you need him. The tight, aching space in your chest pulses with panic.

You try to push yourself off the couch even though your leg won't work right. The pain flares, sharp and hot, but not as bad as the panic clawing through your ribs. “I need him now. Please. I want Bucky.”

Your voice breaks, shatters into something raw and desperate.

Steve looks helpless. Even Captain America doesn’t know how to hold back the sun when it starts to implode.

Nat lays a hand on your shoulder. Her touch is light but firm. “He’s coming,” she says quietly. “He’s already ripping apart the walls to get to you.”

That sounds like him.

It helps, but not enough. 

The tears keep coming, stupid and hot, blurring everything. Your fingers grip the blanket around you, but it’s not what you want. 

You want metal and leather and the calloused hands that catch you midair when you launch off rooftops without a second thought. You want the gruff voice that mutters complaints when you bounce in front of him, bright and too close, but never pulls away.

You want Bucky.

And then he’s there.

Steve barely gets out of the way before Bucky’s next to you, metal hand cupping your cheek like you’re made of something too precious to break.

“There you are,” he breathes. “Sunshine, what did they do to you?”

Your hands reach out to grab him, clutching at his jacket, his shoulder, his neck, anything that’s him. 

You curl into him like a sunflower searching for sunlight, burying your face in his chest and gasping like you can’t breathe without him. 

He smells safe. 

Like home.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” you sob into him. “I was so scared. I thought…”

He’s already wrapping around you, his flesh hand holding the back of your head, metal arm tucking you into him, so close there’s no space between your body and his. “Shh. I’m here, baby. You’re safe now. I got you. Nobody’s touching you ever again.”

You nod, even as the tears soak through his shirt. His lips press to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Like, if he kisses you enough, he can erase what happened.

“You’re late,” you whisper, your voice trembling and watery.

“I know, dollface,” he murmurs, his voice cracking at the edges. “I should’ve been faster.”

Steve clears his throat, somewhere behind you. “Maybe give her a second to breathe, Buck.”

“I am breathing,” you mutter into Bucky’s neck, your voice muffled but stubborn.

Bucky glares at Steve. “She wants me, she gets me. End of story.”

Nat smirks from the corner, arms crossed. “She was begging for you like the world was ending.”

“She’s my world,” Bucky shoots back without hesitation.

He tilts your chin up gently, and when your glassy eyes meet his, he winces. “Look at what they did to my baby,” he whispers. “Your face. Your leg...” He trails off, breathing hard, like he might go find the bastards and rip them apart again just for good measure.

“Nat already got them,” you say, sniffling, managing a tiny smile. “Bet she looked really cool doing it, too.”

“I wanted to be the one to end them,” he mutters darkly.

You tug on his sleeve. “You’re here now. That’s better, the best thing ever. Promise.”

He melts at that, just enough. His forehead presses to yours. “You scared me, you little menace.”

“I scare everyone,” you mumble, eyes drooping as the exhaustion catches up with you. “But you always come back.”

“Always, sunshine.” He kisses the tip of your nose, holding you like you’re breakable. “You’re my favorite chaos.”

You hum, smiling sleepily at him, and he has to look away so he doesn’t fold. “I like when you call me that.”

“I’d like it even more if you didn’t almost get yourself killed,” he mutters. “No more solo missions. No more running ahead without backup. No more playing bait.”

“But I’m good bait,” you protest, nuzzling into his chest.

“I don’t care. No more.” His voice is final. His grip is absolute. “You’re sticking with me.”

And maybe that sounds like a means of control to anyone else.

But you? You just smile.

Because you’re safe. 

Because he’s here.

Even the brightest light needs a shadow to guard it.

And Bucky Barnes is your favorite one.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

If you'd like to be added to my taglist

Much love x

- Maeve

Tags: @princess-lil-spidey @sapphirebarnes @mgchaser @sparklystarsandstrawberries @arcadia-smith @rnurse-kole @juliebluehufflepuff @sailorsenshiuranep @alexxavicry @ficcharsimp @winchestert101 @thatesqcrush @bamitzzsam @grubler @peaches1958 @helen-2003 @ickearmn @Kimmie113080 @Xgbtmdmx @buckysbunnie @Shower-me-with-roses @pigeonmama @civilbucky @piinksdoll @desimarie12 @sleepysongbirdsings @barnesb420 @Suffereroflife @pigeonmama @yes-ilovetowrite @shadowstar1072 @serenaivy

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.

___

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

make the reader teaching bucky to play minecraft :)))

Minecraft » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Best Friend/Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Best Friend!Female Reader

Summary: You teach Bucky how to play Minecraft.

Warnings: none except Fluff

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckyys-babydoll / divider made by me

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

“Thanks for taking me to the gala. I had a great time.” You say as you and Bucky walked inside of his apartment.

“I should be thanking you for being my date.” Bucky says flirtatiously.

“Anytime, Buck.” You smiled, kissing his cheek.

Bucky said you could spend the night before the gala so you grabbed your bag and changed in his bedroom. You grabbed your Nintendo Switch to play Minecraft and went to the kitchen where Bucky was reading a packet.

“I ordered food from that restaurant that has those chili cheese fries you like.” Bucky says, handing you a paper bag of food.

“You’re the best.” You smiled.

“What’s that thing?” Bucky asks, referring to your Nintendo Switch.

“It’s a Nintendo Switch. You can play video games on it.” You tell him. “Wanna play on it with me?” You asked.

“Maybe after I read this stupid packet.” He says.

“You might want to clean your arm and shirt before you do that.” You say, referring to the chili sauce on his vibranium arm and his white button up shirt.

Bucky looks down to see chili sauce on his vibranium arm and white button up shirt. He made a grumbling noise before taking his button up shirt off and tossed it on the other side of the kitchen counter and detached his vibranium arm and put it in the dishwasher.

“Did you just put your vibranium arm in the dish washer?” You asked with a giggle.

“Yea.” He says. “How else would it get clean?” He asks.

You shrugged and giggled.

“I’ll pretreat your shirt if you want.” You suggested.

“That would be nice. Thank you, doll.” Bucky smiles.

“You’re welcome, Buck.” You smiled back.

You put your Nintendo Switch down on the kitchen counter and grabbed his shirt. You went to the laundry and pretreated his shirt before going back to the kitchen to eat and play Minecraft on your Nintendo Switch.

———

“Finally.” Bucky sighs. “I’m done reading that packet.” He says.

“Do you want to learn how to play Minecraft?” You asked.

“Sure.” He says.

Bucky put his vibranium arm back on before sitting down next to you at the table. You put your Nintendo Switch in his hands.

“What am I supposed to do?” He asks.

“You just build stuff. That’s what I do.” You say.

“How?” He asks.

“Click on this button.” You say.

Bucky clicked on the button you pointed at. He clicked on it and a block appeared on the screen for him.

“Keep doing that in anyway you want.” You say.

“Why does it look like that?” Bucky asks.

“That’s how the game was designed.” You say.

“It’s weird, but fun.” He says.

“It is fun.” You agreed.

“Do you have any other games for this thing?” He curiously asks.

“Yes. Would you like to play a different game?” You asked.

“Yes please.” He answers.

You got more games out of your bag and let Bucky choose which game he wants to play next. You spend the rest of the night teaching Bucky how to play the games on your Nintendo Switch.

“The old man is learning.” You say with a grin.

“What did I say about the old jokes, doll face?” Bucky asks, playfully narrowing his eyes at you.

“Not to say them.” You giggled. “You really think that’s gonna stop me from calling you old?” You say.

“You lost your gaming privileges for the rest of the night.” He jokingly says.

“You can’t do that!” You playfully whined.

“I just did.” He grins.

-Bucky’s Doll

Return to You || Aragorn

Summary: Request - he reader and aragorn are in an established relationship before he leaves with the fellowship, and shortly after he's gone she finds out that she's pregnant. obviously she can't tell aragorn since she doesn't know where he is to send a letter or otherwise a message of some kind... Read Rest Here

A/N: Wow, I really love this one. It took me a while but I think it turned out really well. Let me know what you think :)

Pairing: Aragorn x Female Reader

Word Count: 6.1k +

TW: War, talks of war, pregnancy, general LOTR

The fire crackled low in the hearth casting long, flickering shadows across the small space you and Strider had called home. It wasn’t much. Just a small cottage nestled in the rolling hills not too far from the village of Bree. The warmth of the fire did little to chase away the chill creeping into your bones. It wasn’t from the cold, no, but instead from the unspoken truth that lingers between you.

He’s leaving.

You knew the time was coming. You felt it in your bones. The way Middle Earth got darker through every day. And Strider was important in warding off whatever the hell was taking over your home. You knew that much by how often Gandalf had visited. You never asked how bad. He never told you the details other than you knew he’d be called to the front lines soon enough. And apparently that day was today.

Strider sat beside you. His rough, calloused fingers trailing along the back of your hand as if memorizing every ridge and line. He does that often, touching you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go. Tonight, though there’s something different in his touch. A quiet desperation, a silent plea. Neither of you had spoken in a while. There’s nothing left to say that hasn’t already been whispered in the dark, murmured against skin, carved into the sacred spaces between your heartbeats.

Gandalf’s call had finally come. The war is no longer a distant shadow on the horizon. It’s here, looming over the world, threatening to tear everything apart. And Strider, the man you love, the man whose name is laced with destiny, cannot turn away.

“I would stay if I could,” he murmured at last breaking the heavy silence. His thumb brushes against your knuckles, lingering, like he’s afraid to let go. Because he is. “You know that, don’t you?” His eyes were pleading.

You swallow the ache rising in your throat and nod. “Of course, I know.”

His breath shuddered as he shifted closer, resting his forehead against yours. “Gandalf needs me.” His voice is low, rough with regret. “The world needs me.”

Your fingers tighten around his. “I know. Trust me… I know. But what of me? What am I to do?” The words slip out before you can stop them, raw and aching. You hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to let the fear show.

Strider exhales sharply, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. There’s something in his expression that steals the air from your lungs, something tender and fierce all at once. “You must stay hidden. You are my world,” he says softly. “And I will return to you no matter what it takes.”

Tears prick at your eyes, but you force yourself to smile. “You’re lucky I’m good at hiding. And that I’m patient.”

A low, breathless chuckle escapes him before he cups your face in his hands. His thumb brushing along your cheek as if to chase away the sorrow settling there. His lips find yours in a kiss that is both a promise and a plea, slow and lingering, desperate, and aching. You pour every unspoken word into it, every prayer, every ounce of love you have for him. When he finally pulled away his forehead rests against yours once more. “I will come back to you,” he vows. “I will always come back to you. No matter how long it takes.”

And in the morning as you stand at the edge of the village watching him disappear into the rising sun you clung to those words like a lifeline. Because no matter how far he goes, no matter how long you have to wait, you know one thing with absolute certainty. He will always find his way back to you.

The days stretch long and quiet in his absence. The mornings are the hardest, waking to an empty bed and reaching for the warmth of him only to find cold sheets and silence. You find yourself lingering in doorways staring out toward the horizon as if you might catch a glimpse of him in the distance riding home to you. But he is gone so far beyond your reach swallowed by the road that calls him ever forward.

At first you distract yourself with routine. Chores, errands, tending to the home you built together. You keep busy because you must. Because if you stop the ache in your chest becomes unbearable. But not long after he leaves something feels different. At first it was subtle. A wave of dizziness when you stood too quickly. A lingering nausea in the mornings that you chalk up to restless sleep. You tried brushing it off but not long after the fatigue creeps in. An exhaustion that weighs heavier than heartache alone. You press on though, pushing through until the realization becomes impossible to ignore.

The healer didn’t t need long to confirm what you already suspected. Her hands are gentle as they press against your abdomen with a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You are with child.” She said softly with a saddened smile. She knew, the whole village knew, that the baby’s father was long off fighting for the preservation of Middle Earth. The words crash over you like a wave, sweeping your breath away. For a long moment you can only stare trying to process what she’s just said. A child. Strider’s child.

Your hands tremble as they settle over your stomach as if expecting to feel something different beneath your fingertips. A life, small and fragile, growing within you. A piece of him left behind. Joy, fear, and uncertainty twist together in your chest, tangling into something impossible to untangle. You should be happy, shouldn’t you? And you are, in some quiet, awestruck way. But beneath that joy, fear lingers. A fear of what the future holds. Of what may come. Because Strider is not here. And there is no way to tell him.

You think of sending a letter, of finding a messenger, but you have no idea where he is. He could be anywhere beyond the mountains, lost in the wilds, deep in the heart of danger. You could write a thousand letters and never know if one would reach him. So, you had to wait.

The weeks pass and the weight of your secret grows heavier. Your body begins to change. The once loose fabric of your dresses stretching tighter over your stomach. You stand before the mirror some mornings pressing your hands against your belly whispering words only the child can hear. Your love. Your father will return to us. He will.

But as time drags on the world darkens. Rumors trickle in from travelers, whispers of war and death and an enemy who grows stronger by the day. Villages burned, men slaughtered, hope slipping through the cracks like sand in an hourglass. And with every passing day, your fear deepens. What if he does not return? What if he never knows? What if this child, his baby, enters the world without ever knowing the sound of his father’s voice?

You press your hands against your stomach, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill. “I will wait for you,” you whisper into the quiet. Even if the waiting breaks you.

The world feels too quiet without him. Without the steady warmth of his presence. Without the way he would murmur soft words in the dark when he thought you were asleep. Without the way his fingers would brush over yours in quiet moment promising things he never said aloud.

Now, there is only the crackle of the dying fire and the steady whisper of wind against the wooden walls. You lay awake most nights staring at the ceiling one hand resting over the growing curve of your stomach. The weight of the secret you carry grows heavier with each passing day. With each reminder that you are alone.

Fear lurks in the corners of your mind. Not just for yourself, but for him. Where is he? Is he safe? Does he think of you as often as you think of him? You don’t know. And it’s the not knowing that threatens to break you.

Then, one morning, the nausea hits harder than before. You barely make it outside in time, bracing yourself against the railing as your body trembles with the force of it. When the sickness passes you lean back against the post, breathless and exhausted. The sun is barely cresting over the horizon casting a golden glow across the fields and for a moment you let yourself pretend that Strider is still here. That he will step through the doorway and press a hand to your back, murmuring reassurances in that steady, quiet voice of his.

But he is not here. And he will not be, not for a long time. You press a hand to your stomach, feeling the faintest flutter beneath your palm. A life. His life. A part of him, still here, still with you. The thought steels your resolve. You cannot continue waiting in silence hoping for answers that may never come. Strider once spoke of Rivendell, of Lord Elrond’s wisdom, of the sanctuary it provided. If anyone knew where he was it would be him. If anyone could offer guidance it would be him.

And so, before doubt can creep in you pull yourself upright and move inside settling at the worn wooden desk in the corner of the room. The parchment feels fragile beneath your fingertips as you dip the quill into ink, hesitating only for a breath before pressing the tip to the page. You do not know how to begin. But you begin anyway.

To Lord Elrond of Rivendell,

My name is Y/N, and I write to you not as a stranger, but as the one Strider left behind. Or as you know him, Aragorn.

I do not send this letter lightly, nor do I wish to burden you with matters that may seem small in the face of the darkness that looms over Middle Earth. But I have nowhere else to turn.

Aragorn spoke of you often, with the deepest respect. He once told me that if I were ever in need I might look to Rivendell for guidance. Now, I find myself in need of both guidance and news of him.

I do not know where he is. I do not know if he is safe, or if he will return. And I do not know if this letter will reach you in time. But I pray that it does because I am carrying his child.

I had no way of telling him before he left. I do not even know if I will ever have the chance. But I had to try. If there is any way to get word to him. If there is any hope that you might know where he is… please, I beg of you, let me know.

If nothing else, I ask for your wisdom. The world is changing, growing darker with each passing day and I fear for the safety of this child.

I will wait for your word.

You let the ink dry then fold the letter carefully sealing it before pressing it into the hands of a trusted traveler. “Take this to Rivendell,” you whisper. “Please.”

The waiting is unbearable. Days turn into weeks. Each one stretching longer than the last. Your body changes with the passing time. A growing reminder of the life that will arrive whether Strider returns or not. You knew of his true lineage as Aragorn. He told you a long time ago but insisted on Strider. So, you’d always called him by what he wished.

Then, at last, a rider arrives at your doorstep, clad in elven robes. He does not speak at first but only presses a letter into your trembling hands. His expression solemn. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you break the seal, fingers tightening around the parchment as your eyes scan the elegant script.

Your letter reached me, but alas, not in time.

Aragorn has already departed from Rivendell. He travels now with the Fellowship, and I cannot say when or if he will return. He walks a path of great peril. His fate, like that of all free peoples, hangs in the balance.

I grieve that you must bear this burden alone. No lady should have to face such uncertainty without the comfort of her beloved by her side. And so, I offer you this: Come to Rivendell. You and the child will find sanctuary here. You will not be alone.

If you wish it come to Rivendell with the messenger who handed you this letter.

Elrond of Rivendell

Your vision blurred as you lower the letter, emotions warring within you. Relief that your words had not gone unheard, sorrow that your Strider is still lost to you, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the kindness offered in Elrond’s reply.

You press a hand to your stomach, exhaling a slow, steady breath. Strider may be gone. He may never know of the child you carry. But you will do whatever it takes to protect this life. To ensure that your child is safe even if it means leaving everything behind.

When the messenger asks what you will do, you lift your chin, heart heavy but resolute. “I will travel to Rivendell with you.”

The journey to Rivendell is long, stretching over days or weeks that bleed together in exhaustion and quiet reflection. You leave behind the familiar comforts of home. The place where Strider last stood before you and trade them for the uncertainty of the road ahead. The elves who guide you are patient, their presence a steady reassurance, but the solitude you carry remains unshaken. The nights now had become the hardest when the world is still and there is nothing but your own thoughts to keep you company. You wonder where he is, if he is safe, if he is looking at the same stars you are.

By the time you reach Rivendell you are nearly at the end of this pregnancy. But you did have time to admire the elven lands. Rivendell is as beautiful as Strider had described. Untouched by war and time. A sanctuary wrapped in cascading waterfalls and golden trees. The very air feels different here, lighter, ancient, like a whisper of something beyond mortal comprehension. But for all its beauty it is not home. The ache in your chest does not fade nor does the silence in the space beside you. The absence of the man you love stretching wider with each passing day. The elves welcome you graciously, offering kindness without expectation, but their presence only reminds you that you are alone in a place meant for those with elven blood. You do not belong here.

At first you keep to yourself uncertain of what role you hold in this sanctuary. You spend the days walking through the stone corridors, the terraces that overlook the valley, your hands always finding their place over the growing curve of your stomach. The life inside you is the only tether you have to Strider now. The last piece of him you can hold onto when everything else is uncertain. You whisper to your baby, pressing soft words against your skin, hoping that somehow they can feel the love you already bear for them.

Elrond watches over you though you do not understand why at first. You know of his history with Strider. Of the weight he placed upon him for years, the expectations of a lineage long denied but never forgotten. There is an unspoken wariness when you first meet him. A quiet hesitation as you wonder if he sees you as a complication in Striders grand destiny. But Elrond never speaks of such things, nor does he treat you with anything less than patience and wisdom. He does not pry, does not press when he sees the lingering sorrow in your eyes. Instead, he offers quiet companionship. A presence steady enough to remind you that you do not have to bear this alone.

He is there on the mornings when the sickness leaves you pale and shaking, offering herbal remedies to ease the discomfort. He places books in your hands when the nights stretch too long knowing that distraction is sometimes the only way to keep the mind from spiraling. When you struggle beneath the weight of uncertainty he does not speak empty reassurances but instead reminds you of your own strength, of the resilience that has carried you this far.

"You are strong," he tells you one evening. His voice calm but firm. "Even when you do not feel it you are strong. And you will endure." You nod though you do not entirely believe it. Strength feels fleeting these days. A thing that wavers beneath the weight of the unknown. Some nights, you dream of Strider. Of his hands on yours, of the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth fighting for. You wake with tears on your cheeks more often than not, and though Elrond never mentions it you know he sees. He does not press but his presence lingers just long enough to remind you that you are not truly alone.

Time moves forward even as you feel frozen in place. Your body changes wholly. Your baby growing stronger with each passing day. You begin to feel the child’s movements, soft at first, then stronger. Small kicks, reminders that you are not just waiting for Strider but for the baby who will need you no matter what happens in the world beyond Rivendell. You let yourself imagine what it would be like if Strider were here. If his hand could rest over your stomach the way yours does. If he could see the life you created together. The thought brings equal parts joy and sorrow because you do not know if he will ever return to see it.

And then, on a night bathed in silver moonlight, the first sharp pain lances through you.

It begins slowly. A dull ache that you try to dismiss as exhaustion but as the hours stretch on the pain intensifies. You clutch the edge of the bed, breathing through it, but when the next wave comes, you know. It is time.

The next hours pass in a blur of whispered voices and steady hands. Of soft reassurances in Elvish and the warmth of a hand pressed against yours when the pain becomes unbearable. The room swims in and out of focus, exhaustion threatening to pull you under, but you fight against it, gripping onto the knowledge that soon, so soon, you will meet you baby.

And then after what feels like an eternity, the weight of it all breaks. A sharp cry fills the room, piercing through the exhaustion, the haze of pain and uncertainty. The sound crashes over you, and everything else fades into nothing. “A boy.” You hear in your haze.

Your son.

Elrond lifts him carefully. His expression unreadable for a moment before he steps closer, placing the small, wriggling body into your waiting arms. The moment his weight settles against you, the world stills.

He is perfect.

Your breath hitches as you take him in. Your hands shaking as you press your fingers against his impossibly soft skin. Dark hair, still damp from birth, clings to his forehead. And when his eyes flutter open, they are deep and grey, piercing in a way that makes your heart stop.

Strider.

It’s almost too much, the ache in your chest swelling until it feels unbearable. He is not here. He should be here. He should be the one holding his son. The one whispering reassurances. The one tracing the tiny fingers curled against your chest.

Tears spill over before you can stop them, dropping onto your son’s forehead as you press a trembling kiss there, inhaling the scent of him, of new life, of something so fragile yet so incredibly strong. You hold him closer, whispering words against his skin, words meant for him but also for Strider. For the man who does not yet know the love waiting for him here.

"You are loved," you whisper. Your voice thick with emotion. "You are so, so loved."

Even if Strider never returns. Even if the world takes him from you before he can ever know, this child will never have to doubt the depth of the love he was born into. Because Strider is here. Not in body, not yet, but in this life, in this perfect, tiny boy who carries his strength.

And so, you hold your son close, rocking him gently as his cries soften into small breaths against your chest. You do not know what the future holds but in this moment you do not need to.

Because no matter what happens next you will keep your promise. You will wait for Strider. And when he returns, if he returns, you will place his son in his arms, and he will know. He will know that even through all the darkness something bright and beautiful was waiting for him to come home.

The days in Rivendell are quiet, your son growing stronger with each passing week. He is your anchor. The only thing tethering you to the present when your thoughts so often drift to the past. To Strider, to the uncertainty of his fate. You wake in the night sometimes clutching your child close wondering if somewhere across the world Strider is still fighting if he is still alive. You have no idea how long it had been since he left your home. A year maybe? Elrond confirms it had been nearly that amount of time.

Then, one morning, the world shifts. The halls of Rivendell buzz with murmurs. Excitement threading through voices that have remained steady and somber for so long. The news arrives that Sauron was defeated. The war is over.

You clutch your son tighter as the words sink in. Middle Earth is free. The darkness that once threatened to consume everything has been vanquished. Hope fills the valley, but you are afraid to let it settle in your heart. You do not ask the one question burning inside you, not yet, not until you hear Elrond’s voice, quiet but certain, as he delivers the final truth.

Aragorn lives. Your Strider is alive. Alive.

The breath left your lungs in a sharp, shuddering gasp, your knees nearly giving out beneath you. Relief washed over you so violently that it leaves you dizzy. The weight of months of fear, of not knowing, crashing down all at once. He is alive. He is alive. He is coming back. Coming home!

But Elrond’s next words halt your thoughts in their tracks.

“He is to be crowned King of Gondor.”

The statement rings in your ears, sending a different kind of tremor through you. The war is over. Strider is not just alive. He is victorious. He is stepping into the destiny he was always meant for, the one that has lingered over him like a shadow for as long as you have known him. He is no longer just the man who held you close and promised to return. He is to be king. King of Gondor.

Your heart clenches with a different fear taking root in your chest. What if everything has changed? What if he has changed? You had always known that this day would come. That Strider was never meant to remain in the wilds forever. But now, standing here with your son in your arms, the reality of it is suffocating.

Would he still want you? Would he still want this life that was built in his absence, a child he did not know existed? Or would his new station, his new responsibilities, demand something else entirely?

You press a trembling kiss to your son’s forehead, inhaling the scent of him, grounding yourself. You should be celebrating, rejoicing in the knowledge that the man you love is alive. And yet, all you can do is stare down at the small boy in your arms, the one who carries Striders features so clearly, and wonder. Will he still choose us?

The journey to Minas Tirith stretches endlessly before you. Every step closer filling you with both anticipation and fear. You clutch your son tightly pressing a soft kiss to his dark hair, inhaling the sweet, warm scent of him as if it will steady the rapid beating of your heart. You had spent so many nights fearing this moment would never come. That Strider would never return. Now, the truth is almost too much to bear. He is alive, he has won, and he is waiting for you. Or so you hope. But what if he is no longer your Strider? What if he is now Aragorn alone?

The towering gates of Minas Tirith rise ahead after a month of travel. The banners of Gondor snapping in the wind. The city is alive with the hum of celebration. The people reveling in their freedom, in their new king. But you are blind to it all. Your world has shrunk to the only thing that matters. The man waiting at the top of those white stone steps.

And then you see him.

Strider stands at the entrance of the citadel clothed in the robes of a king, a silver circlet resting upon his brow. But none of it matters. Not the title. Not the crown. He could be standing in rags, and he would still be him. His grey eyes find yours and everything stops.

For a moment he does not move. Does not breathe as if the sight of you has struck him so deeply he cannot comprehend it. His gaze flickers from your face to the child in your arms and then back to you, something breaking, something raw and unguarded slipping through the carefully placed armor he has worn for so long.

And then he moves. Not with the controlled grace of a king. Not with the measured composure of a man who has carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. No, he runs. He runs to you. To your son. To his home.

His legs nearly buckle as he reaches you. His breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps as if he has forgotten how to breathe altogether. He stops just short. His entire body trembling. His hands reaching out but not quite touching as if he is afraid that if he does you might vanish like a cruel dream.

His voice when it comes is hoarse, cracked with emotion. “You…” His breath shudders. “You’re real?”

Tears blur your vision as you nod, your arms tightening around your son. “I’m here.”

Strider, Aragorn, exhales sharply and before you can take another breath he drops to his knees before you. A strangled sound escapes him as he presses his hands to your skirts. His forehead resting against your legs in a gesture so utterly broken that it sends a fresh wave of tears spilling down your cheeks. His fingers grip the fabric of your cloak as if anchoring himself to you, his shoulders shaking under the weight of emotions too strong to contain.

“You waited for me,” he whispers, the words a prayer, a reverence, a confession. His lips press against the fabric covering your knee, then your thigh, then lower, worshiping the very ground you stand on. “I thought—I feared—” His breath is ragged as he shakes his head, pressing another kiss against your legs before tilting his head back to look up at you, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Then, his gaze drops widens as he sees him. The baby in your arms. Not so much a newborn anymore but not a toddler yet. The small, sleeping boy nestled in your arms, so peaceful, so unaware of the storm his father is weathering before him. Striders entire body goes still. His hands slowly releasing their grip on your skirts. His breath catches, his fingers trembling as he hesitantly reaches forward, stopping just short of touching the child.

He looks up at you. His expression unraveling into something utterly undone. “Is he…” His voice fails him, cracking beneath the weight of the question.

You nod, your own voice barely a whisper. “He is yours, Strider.”

Something inside him broke. A choked, breathless sob escapes him as he lifts shaking hands. His fingers barely grazing the soft blanket wrapped around his son before he pulls back afraid that he is unworthy of touching something so pure. “I didn’t know…” His voice fractures again and he looks back up at you with desperation in his eyes. “I didn’t know.”

“I know,” you whisper before shifting closer, pressing the bundle into his waiting arms. “But you do now.” The moment his son was in his arms Strider let out a sound so raw, so full of everything that he has held back for so long that it steals the air right from your lungs.

His hands, scarred and calloused from war, cradle the small boy with infinite tenderness. His thumb brushes along his son’s cheek memorizing every inch of him. The curve of his tiny nose, the soft wisps of dark hair, the way his fingers twitch in sleep.

Strider swallowed hard, tears slipping down his face as he presses his forehead against his son’s. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers. His voice trembling. “You are…” His breath shudders. “You are mine. The Prince of Gondor”

The boy stirs then, blinking up at him with eyes that mirror his own. Grey and stormy, deep as the rivers that run through the land. The first glimpse of recognition dawns in those tiny features, and Strider let out a soft, broken laugh. His grip tightening ever so slightly knowing will never let go. Your heart feels like it might truly shatter as you witness your son and his father meeting for the first time.

He looks back up at you then with the tears now spilling freely down his face. “What is his name?”

You hesitate. “I never truly named him,” you admit. Your voice thick with emotion. “I only ever called him Aragorn.”

Something unreadable flickers across his face. Then, suddenly, he laughs. A soft, breathless sound, full of wonder, full of disbelief. He looks down at his son with a teary smile tugging at his lips. “Then he has a name worthy of him.” He presses a reverent kiss to his son’s forehead before shifting his gaze back to you. And then before you can say anything else he reached for you, wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you into his embrace.

“I love you,” he murmurs as his lips pressed against your temple, your cheek, your lips. “I have always loved you.” His grip tightens as if he cannot bear to let go. “No war, no kingdom, nothing could ever change that.”

Tears rolled down your face as you clutch at him, pressing your forehead against his. “I was so afraid,” you whisper. “That you wouldn’t want us. That…”

Strider silences you with another kiss, deep and lingering, full of every promise he has ever made, full of everything he cannot put into words. When he pulls away his voice is fierce, unshaken. “Never,” he vows. “Never doubt that you are my heart. That he is my greatest joy.” He looks down at his son again, his fingers tracing gentle patterns over the boy’s tiny hands. “You waited for me,” he murmurs before pressing another kiss to his son’s head. “And now, I swear to you both, I will never leave again.” A quiet sob escapes you and you lean into him. Letting him hold both of you as if he can shield you from every sorrow you have ever known. You had waited. And now, finally you were home.

The White City gleams beneath the golden afternoon sun. Its towers stretching high into the heavens, banners of Gondor rippling in the wind. The throne room, once a place of war councils and endless worries, now holds something far greater. It holds peace, love, and a king who rules not just with wisdom but with a heart full of devotion.

And at the center of it all, Aragorn sits upon his throne, not just as the ruler of Gondor, but as a father, a husband, a man who has found his way back to the life he never dared to dream for himself.

His son sits in his lap with tiny fingers clutching at the silver detailing of his robes, wide grey eyes staring up at his father in open adoration. The boy is a mirror of him, with dark curls and a regal air that already hints at the leader he will one day become. Though for now he is simply his father’s son, wrapped in the safety of arms that would never let him go.

The court watches with quiet amusement as the toddler shifts in Aragorn’s hold whispering something in that sweet, curious voice of his. Without hesitation, the King of Gondor leans down, his expression softening completely as he murmurs a response, pressing a kiss to the boy’s forehead before turning back to the matters of the realm.

And standing at his side, watching the scene unfold, is you. You rest a hand over the gentle swell of your stomach, your heart full with the life growing inside you. Your second child, a symbol of everything that had once felt so uncertain, now made real in the warmth of your husband’s love. Your fingers trace over the fabric of your gown feeling the faintest flutter of movement beneath your touch. A quiet reminder that soon, your family would grow even more.

Aragorn’s eyes find yours, his gaze lingering, full of a love that still leaves you breathless, even now. His lips curve into a soft, knowing smile, and without a word, he shifts, adjusting his son in his arms before extending a hand toward you. You step forward, placing your hand in his, feeling the familiar warmth of his touch, the strength in his fingers as he intertwines them with yours. He lifts your joined hands pressing a kiss to the back of yours, reverence in every movement.

“My Queen,” he murmurs. His voice thick with affection. The title spoken not as a formality, but as something sacred.

Your breath falters for a moment, and though you have been by his side for months now, the weight of it still fills you with awe. He does not say it as if it is an obligation. He does not say it as if it is a role you were forced to accept. He says it like a man who has chosen you in every lifetime, in every battle, in every moment since the first time he laid eyes on you.

The small boy in his arms reaches for you then, his chubby fingers patting against your growing belly, a bright, innocent giggle spilling from his lips as if he already knows that soon he will have a sibling to protect. Aragorn chuckles, shifting the child slightly so you can press a kiss to his soft curls. Your fingers brushing against Aragorn’s in the process. His hand tightens over yours, his thumb sweeping gently across your knuckles, grounding you in the warmth of him.

There had been so much fear once. So much uncertainty. But now, there is only this. Him, your son, your growing family, the home you have built together within the walls of a kingdom that now thrives under his reign.

“You are happy?” he asks softly. His voice a quiet caress against your skin.

You smile, leaning in until your lips brush against his ear. Your voice warm with all the love you have ever held for him. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Aragorn exhales. His forehead pressing lightly against yours, the soft weight of your son nestled between you both. “Then I have fulfilled my greatest duty,” he murmurs, a quiet promise only for you to hear.

You close your eyes, letting the moment settle around you, letting yourself breathe in the scent of him, the warmth of your son, the peace that now fills your life. You had waited. You had hoped. You had loved him even when the world tried to tear you apart. And now, standing at his side, with his hand in yours and his child in your arms, you know.

He had always, always, been coming home to you. He would always return to you.

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Smitten

Summary : Sam finally meets Bucky’s girlfriend, though you’re not who he thinks you are. 

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

Warnings/tags : Fluff fluff FLUFF! Joaquin and Sam are in this. Introverted! Reader. Brief mentions of violence. Cursing. 

Requested by : anon (based on this request)

Word count : 2.3k

Note : This satisfies my need to stay at home all day haha! Enjoy!

Sam had never met Bucky’s girlfriend.

But he had heard of you.

A lot about you, actually.

Nine months ago, Bucky had started mentioning you after you met at a bookshop. You were this hero, who, by all accounts, should have been the most intimidating woman on the planet. You were skilled and ruthless when necessary, even Hydra handlers would probably admire your work. Joaquin had read the files— how you tracked down an entire weapons trafficking ring by yourself, left every single one of the enemy in various states of agony, and managed to leave without any fatalities.

“Have you seen the mission reports? She’s so precise it’s actually terrifying,” Joaquin had said on the way to Bucky’s apartment, telling every legendary story he had heard about you. “I heard they took down a whole warehouse of mercenaries with a pair of batons. Not even a gun! She sounds mean.”

Sam chuckled, adjusting the bag of soda in his hands. “No way anyone is meaner than Bucky, though.”

“We’ll see, man.” Joaquin grinned. “Maybe she makes him look nice.”

Sam snorted. If that were the case, he was dying to meet you.

But the thing was, as terrifying as you apparently were on the field, Bucky talked about you like you were… fragile.

It started six months ago, when you officially became a couple.

Sam started noticing the way Bucky’s face changed when he mentioned you. He’d have a slight smile that softened the hard lines of his forehead. His voice would lose that slightly gruff tone, growing softer the more he mentioned you. 

And fuck knows he talked about you all the damn time.

Not just about how skilled you were, though Sam had gotten enough secondhand mission briefings to wonder if Bucky was keeping a shrine somewhere. No, he often talked about the little things. Like how you stole the blankets in your sleep. Or how you tried (and failed) to teach Bucky how to use a bo staff. Or how you sent Bucky the stupidest memes at 3 AM, knowing full well you’d have to explain half of them in person. 

And God help them all if you did something impressive— Bucky would pretend to be all casual about it, but then five minutes later, he’d be bringing it up again saying how proud he was of his girlfriend capturing four cops illegally dealing rifles to civilians.

“You’re not subtle,” Sam had pointed out once, after Bucky spent a debrief clearly distracted.

Bucky shrugged, though he was mentally counting down the minutes to when he’d see you again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m thinking about my girlfriend’ look.” Sam smirked. “It’s gross, by the way.”

Bucky had just scoffed something under his breath and rolled his eyes. 

So yeah, Sam had never met you. Between your missions and his, the opportunity just never aligned.

But by now, he felt like he already knew you.

And tonight, after months of hearing Bucky talk about you like a hopelessly lovesick super soldier—he and Joaquin were finally going to meet the Winter Soldier’s girlfriend.

—

They had expected you to be brutal. Brash. Maybe even a little cold, given your reputation.

Instead, when Bucky opened the door, the first words out of his mouth were, “Hey, uh—just so you guys know, my girlfriend’s a little nervous about meeting you.”

Sam paused mid-step. What?

Bucky shifted, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s, uh… not really the social type.”

Joaquin raised an eyebrow, shooting Sam a look. Sam could tell he was just as confused. “Your girlfriend?”

“Yes, my girlfriend,” Bucky deadpanned, crossing his arms.

Before Sam could respond, a small blur of white streaked past Bucky’s feet making a beeline for Joaquin, weaving between his legs and rubbing against his boots. It took a second for his brain to catch up, but then— oh. It was the kitten. Alpine. Bucky adopted her a couple weeks ago. Sam had received no less than five photos a day from Bucky over the last two weeks, each one featuring the cat in a different pose, with captions like—

"Look at her lil’ paws." "She fell asleep on my chest." "She just sneezed."

Before Sam could make a funny remark, he heard a voice come from  inside the apartment.

“Alpine, no. Come here, baby,” you said gently.

Sam blinked. That was his girlfriend?

You appeared, peeking out from the kitchen doorway. You looked… normal. Cozy, even. Dressed in comfortable clothes, eyes wide, fingers fidgeting at your sides.

The gears in Sam’s felt like they needed oiling for a second.

This was you? The you?

The same person who had infiltrated high-security facilities without breaking a sweat? The same person who single-handedly takes down crime syndicates left and right? The same woman he read about in news articles and mission reports?

You gave them both a hesitant smile and a small wave. “Um. Hi.”

Joaquin, bless him, recovered from the initial shock first. “Hey!” he said, “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Your smile widened. Your shoulders started to relax. “All good things, I hope.”

Before Sam could even wrap his head around how soft-spoken you were, Bucky stepped closer to you. Gone was the battle-hardened soldier, and in his place was a man so ridiculously in love that it almost made Sam uncomfortable to witness. But no, he was just happy that his friend was happy. In shock, but happy nonetheless.

Bucky reached for you carefully, like you were made of the most fragile glass. His hand found the small of your back, thumb rubbing soothing circles.

“Darlin’, you wanna come say hi properly?” he asked, his voice so different from the barks Sam was used to hearing in the field.

You nodded, stepping fully into view.

And then—because apparently, this wasn’t enough of a shock to Sam’s system—Bucky tucked you against his side protectively and pressed a kiss to your temple.

Oh?

Who the hell was this man, and what the hell had you done to Bucky Barnes?

—

Dinner was homemade.

More specifically, dinner was homemade by Bucky.

Sam had to find a place to sit down when you told him that. He blinked at the plate in front of him, wondering why the hell it looked so… appetising.

“Bucky can’t cook,” he whispered to himself, utterly baffled.

Joaquin shrugged.

“He can now,” you said in a small but proud voice, giving Bucky a playful nudge. “He wanted to impress me.”

Bucky huffed, but even as he rolled his eyes, his hand found your knee under the table, rubbing absentminded circles just because. “Did it work?”

You tapped your chin, pretending to think it over. “Mmmmm. Maybe.”

The usually grumpy super soldier actually grinned from ear to ear.

Sam had to rub his damn eyes.

This wasn’t real. This had to be an illusion. Maybe he’d fallen asleep on the couch, and this was some bizarre fever dream where Bucky was, for lack of a better word, domesticated.

Meanwhile, Joaquin had already taken a bite. His eyes went wide. “Damn, Buck.” He shoveled another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and made a pleased noise. “You’ve been hiding this skill from us?”

Bucky shrugged, “Wasn’t for you.”

You turned to him. “It’s very good, my love.”

My love.

Since when was Bucky alright with pet names?

Instead of scowling or brushing it off, Bucky just squeezed your hand with his metal fingers, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.

This was Bucky Barnes. Bucky “I’m not exactly a people person” Barnes. Bucky “respect my personal space or I’ll kill you” Barnes.

And here he was, letting you call him ‘my love.’

Sam needed another minute. Maybe even a drink. Anything to help process whatever the hell was happening in front of him.

Joaquin, already on his third bite, didn’t seem as concerned. He waved his fork in the air, nodding approvingly. “I’m impressed. If this is what love does to you, maybe I need to find someone, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky said, “I’m sure someone, somewhere, is into birds.”

Joaquin groaned. 

You giggled, but nudged Bucky’s shoulder anyway. “Be nice.”

Bucky just grumbled under his breath as you leaned in and pressed gentle kisses to his metal knuckles.

And that was it. That was the moment Sam lost all grip on reality.

Because Bucky Barnes—the man who used to flinch at the idea of being touched—literally melted.

He let out a pleased hum as he leaned into you, eyes closing for just a second like he was soaking in the moment. And when he opened them again Sam could’ve sworn they were actual heart eyes.

—

Over dinner, Joaquin—ever the eager one—started asking about your fieldwork.

“So, that human trafficking bust you pulled off last month,” he said, buzzing with admiration. “That was insane. I mean, the level of planning—”

You flushed, ducking your head slightly. “Oh, um. It wasn’t that impressive.”

Joaquin shook his head. “Are you kidding? You dismantled their operation without any collateral damage!”

You let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh, “I just… I try my best.”

Sam set down his fork, “How many did you have to fight?”

You hesitated for a beat. “Seven,” you admitted, pulling down your sleeves as casually as you could manage. Your knuckles were still scarred, bruises blooming beneath. “It would’ve just been five, but the two younger ones—I told them to stand down but I guess they thought they could take me.”

Bet they underestimated you, Sam thought. 

“How old were they?” Sam asked.

“Probably barely out of their teens,” You shrugged. “They were involved, but… they were scared. Probably in too deep to see another way out. I had to put them down, but I pulled my punches. You know the drill.”

Sam tilted his head, knowing firsthand what it’s like. “That can’t be easy.”

You looked at him and shrugged. “It’s not.”

Joaquin, on the other hand, was still practically vibrating in his seat. “I just don’t get how you’re so effective without even being—” He gestured vaguely. “You know. Mean.”

You blinked. “Mean?”

“Yeah, like… I kinda thought you’d be scarier.”

Bucky snorted into his drink. “She is scary.”

Joaquin shot him a skeptical look. “Dude. She just apologised for taking the last bread roll.”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “She’s polite. That doesn’t mean she won’t put you in the ground.”

Joaquin turned to you. “Would you?”

You tilted your head, considering. “If you threatened Bucky, maybe.”

Sam let out a laugh, then shook his head. “I just don’t get it.” He said, “How do you go from that”— he made a concerning stabby gesture— “to this?”

He wasn’t wrong. Sometimes, even Bucky had to admit that the contrast was ridiculous.

You sighed, picking at your food. “Because after all that I just wanna go home.”

Joaquin raised a brow. “And do what? Train?”

“No, I wanna be a gremlin,” you said, amused. “I wanna wear my pajamas, turn off my phone, and pretend I don’t know what daylight is.”

Bucky grinned, nudging your foot under the table. “Tell ‘em about the crafts, sweetheart.”

You shot him a look, but Bucky just smirked.

Joaquin looked up. “Crafts?”

You let out a deep breath, feeling your face heat up. “I, um. I like making things.”

Sam’s brows furrowed. “Like… what?”

Sam had no idea he was about to sit through a thirty-minute lecture on yarn selection.

Strangely, he kind of enjoyed it.

—

By the end of the night, you had warmed up to them both.

Sam had never seen anything like it—you were quiet, sure, but once you got comfortable, you were easy to talk to. It felt… so at odds with the stories he’d heard about you.

And when Joaquin offhandedly mentioned that he’d always wanted to learn how to crochet, your eyes lit up.

“Oh! I could teach you,” you said, eyes jumping to your feet. “It’s actually very relaxing after sending seven human traffickers to a hospital.”

Joaquin choked on his drink, but had a delighted grin on his face. “Yeah?”

“I’ll give you the basics now.” You turned, holding out a hand. “Jamie, can you pass me the yarn?”

Sam could’ve sworn he heard the record scratch in real-time.

Jamie?

The only two people who had ever called Bucky by any variety of his first name were his therapist and Zemo, and Bucky hated both.

But when you said it, Bucky just… melted.

No grumbling. No don’t call me thats.

Just a look of hopeless adoration as he grabbed the yarn and handed it over like a man under a spell.

And so, with Alpine curled up on Bucky’s lap, you spent the next twenty minutes patiently teaching Joaquin how to crochet.

“Okay, so start by making a slipknot,” you instructed.

Joaquin followed your movements, tongue out like it would help his concentration. “Like this?”

“Just tighten it a little.”

Bucky watched with his chin propped on his fist, looking so ridiculously in love that Sam actually had to look away for a second.

“Dude,” Joaquin said, still focused on his stitches. “Your girlfriend is my new best friend.”

Bucky shrugged. “Get in line.”

Joaquin grinned at you. “Hey, if I can’t do it myself, will you make me a glove or something’?”

Before you could answer, Bucky cut in, “No.”

You looked at your boyfriend. “No?”

Bucky crossed his arms. “I had to earn my sweater. Torres doesn’t get free stuff.”

Sam stared at him. “I can’t believe you own a handmade sweater.”

Bucky shrugged. “Several, actually.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

Bucky just smiled, reaching for your hand, tracing slow circles against your palm.

“Yeah, you do.”

And Sam, watching the way Bucky looked at you, like you were the best thing to ever happen to him, had to admit—

Yeah.

He did.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

one look and they'll know

See my full list of works here!

Summary: You go to work on the set of Thor Ragnarok one day and you're greeted with the sight of one Tom Hiddleston on his knees and your coworkers whispering about how he perfected his posture.

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Warning/s: implied smut (there's like 2 paragraphs that talks about it), mentions of BDSM terms, talks about throat grabbing, cussing, and a potentially Domme!Reader that doesn't know her power [if i missed anything let me know!]

Working as a set designer on a movie set meant that every day could either be agonizingly monotonous, or no two days would ever be the same. There was this one TV episode you worked on where majority of the project took place in an interrogation room, so there was next to nothing for you to do besides making sure that continuity errors were minimized or even completely avoided.

This project…was not agonizingly monotonous. By some stroke of luck, you'd landed a gig as a set designer for Thor: Ragnarok, and now you were working on sets that would be walked on by the likes of Chris Hemsworth, Anthony Hopkins, and--fucking Christ on a crutch--Tom Hiddleston.

When you decided to leave your day job of weekly software patches and bug fixes and the ever droning minutiae of daily updates that really gave you nothing except migraines and a bad habit of stress-eating for a chance at a career in the entertainment industry, did you ever think it would lead you here? Absolutely not. Truthfully, you were content with the interrogation rooms, but this? This was a pipe dream.

"Ah. Morning, Y/N," you heard the moment you stepped on set from Taika, currently dressed in a skin-tight spandex gray CGI suit with a giant Korg head harnessed atop his shoulders. "We sourced enough sugar glass bottles for Tessa to throw in Tom's general direction today, yeah?" 

"Well I got five dozen so…we should be good," you shot back with a chuckle. You knew full well what the cast and crew got up to when sugar glass was involved. Mostly smashing it on each other's heads and making some great takes for the blooper reel.

"Awesome. I'll see you there." With a wave you started walking toward your fellow set designers, currently glancing and giggling at one of the Sakaar sets.

"Alright, what's got your panties wet this time?" you called out to your coworkers. 

Bryan, a lanky guy slightly taller than you motioned toward the set. "Look at Hiddlebum." 

"I'd really rather not, you know that I trip on air the second I even glance in his direction," you shot back. "I can't keep my dignity around that man, let alone my sanity. Don't tell me to look at him." 

"He's not gonna look back," Denise, a curvy redhead and one of your closer friends on set, commented in a sing song tone. "Trust me, boss, you're gonna wanna look." 

With a huff, you glanced toward the set and you could wear that your heart turned to solid lead and then jumped out of your chest and straight to the ground. Lord have mercy, you were not ready for the image of Tom in his dark blue-green leather getup, wrapped in gold chains, on his fucking knees, back perfectly straight, and head tilted down to the floor.

The sound that came out of your mouth did not sound ladylike. Hell, it didn't even sound human. 

"Do you think he's--?" Denise started.

"Ohh he definitely is, I mean look at that posture! You don't get there from looking up one picture, you get there from practice and meticulous correction. This man's a sub."

"Sorry, a what?" You were now officially, thoroughly, confused.

"Submissive," Bryan explained to you. "It's a whole thing that needs a 6-hour crash course and a 40+ slide Powerpoint presentation, but for your immediate knowledge, madam, it means he likes being ordered around in the bedroom." 

"So what? Like strip? Slowly? Walk over to me, come to momma type shit?” 

"I'm shocked how quickly you got the vibe, boss," Denise quipped. "Bry, what if she's a domme?"

"A what??" you nearly shrieked. "You think I'm the one who says 'strip slowly and sit down like a good boy and don't move a muscle while I ride you'?" You took a breath to calm yourself. "You're fucking insane, the lot of you."

"Again, you got the vibes, boss. The more you joke about it the more I'm convinced that it's in your DNA."

You let out a frustrated exhale. "Alright you two knuckleheads, look at me." Your voice dropped half an octave and became fuller as you said the last bit, using a tone you hadn't taken out ever since you resigned from the testosterone-laden world of software development. 

"Yes, goddess?" Your blood froze over as you heard the soft spoken words. There was no way it was…No. 

Right?

You looked at Bryan and Denise, both with matching expressions of wide-eyed scandalous amusement on their faces, as they shifted their gaze back and forth between you and Tom. Slowly you moved your gaze back to the set, your breath catching in your throat in an ugly inhuman sound as you saw the steel-blue eyes that haunted your filthiest, wettest, most vivid fantasies…staring straight at you. 

"I-I-I uhm…" you stammered, your voice returning to your normal tone, losing your footing despite being completely stationary. "I was talking to these knuckleheads, s-sorry Tom." You took a steadying breath. "As you were." You mentally smacked yourself as your 'programmer BossLady' voice came out again, your eyes widening in complete shock as he wordlessly followed your instructions and resumed to look down at the floor. 

"Confirmed," Bryan stage whispered to you and Denise. "He's a sub, and we've been silently submitting to Y/N all this time. I mean…Madam." You groaned at his words. 

"You two," you hissed at them. "Let me fucking tell you, I am the farthest thing from a madam. Or a goddess or whatever it was that he called me." You inwardly shuddered at the memory, although if you were being honest it wasn't from shock or disgust. It was from arousal. "My life is unbelievably, annoyingly, dreadfully…vanilla."

Denise giggled. "But you know the jargon? Uh huh. Sure, boss."

You rolled your eyes at her. "Bitch please, I read Fifty Shades. The smut. The toe-curling filth found in the wonder that is Kindle Unlimited. The fanfiction written about that fine-ass man on his knees over there," you whispered the last part in a hiss. "But I digress. The point is that my brain may be filthy, and it may be filled with very vivid fantasies of that very same man on his knees right now, but real life Y/N? Yeah. No."

"Maybe no man ever rose to the challenge," Bryan teased. "You think Hiddlebum would?" 

"That's not a direction my brain ever wants to go unless I'm already in bed, in my birthday suit, legs spread, with a toy in my hand," you shot back without missing a beat. "As for no man ever rising to the challenge?" You leaned in close to their ears. "I can't even get a guy to go down on me because every guy I ever dated or even just fucked said they never do it with anyone because it tastes weird. And don't get me started on the ones that practically bolt out of my hotel room naked when I ask them to put a hand on my throat."

"Maybe you're just talking to the wrong boys, Y/N." You turned around to see that Chris had joined your conversation with a smug look on his face. "You have to start talking to men. Perhaps then your luck will turn."

"Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to eavesdrop on conversations that don't have shit to do with you, Hemsy?" you shot back with an amused smile. You couldn't ever really be mad at the guy who resembled a walking talking 6'4 teddy bear. It was physically impossible. "Good morning."

"Good morning, indeed," he chuckled, turning his attention to the Sakaaran set. "Beautiful posture there, Tom! Absolutely exquisite," he hollered, causing the British man to let out several chuckles.

"Ehehehehe, sod off, Chris." He looked up from his position, most likely intending to glare at Chris, but instead his eyes met yours, and you felt this inexplicable pull towards him. No. Wait. Back up a bit. You felt as if there was this inexplicable force pulling him towards you. You tilted your head the slightest bit, as if questioning him and his tethering gaze, your eyes once again widening in total shock as he responded with turning his head towards the floor in a bow once again.

"Erm…what the fuck was that?" Chris asked, poking your shoulder repeatedly. "It's like you broke him, tiny terror." 

"Me?? Broke him??" you hissed as you turned around to glare at the towering Australian. "I'm the one who's fifty shades of fucking confused here!" 

"You may be, but I've never seen him fold for a woman like that in the entire time I've known him. With a tilt of your head, no less. No wonder your people call you 'madam'. Maybe I should call you that--"

"Don't even fucking think about it, Hemsworth." Your tone from earlier had returned, the one you tried to keep locked away since you gave your resignation letter to your final day job two years ago. A tone you'd once been confused as to why it could cause all those bravado-filled middle-aged men to fold and actually listen to you, well now you had an inkling. 

The tone was domineering. It allowed no room for counter-arguments; perhaps you were right about the words that you were uttering, but also perhaps you weren't, but your tone didn't demand their subservience, it just took. And while it worked in conference rooms and face offs with no less than senior management of the client companies you'd dealt with, never once did you think to use it in the bedroom.

You never realized it was an option.

"Where's Taika?" you asked after taking a few deep breaths to recenter your brain. This was gonna be one of those days, the type that you'd never forget even when you were an octogenarian and you'd  have trouble remembering if you've even eaten for the day. "I have to tell him we can't have the scene set up like this." 

"Why not, lil mayhem?" You turned and once again saw the ridiculous gray CGI spandex that Taika was decked out in, but thankfully now without the gigantic Korg head so at least you were no longer confused where you should be staring. 

"Because people are gonna take one look at him and they're gonna know," you explained, pointing towards the set at the kneeling Loki. 

The director looked at you, clearly confused. "Know what?" 

"Ohh this will be delicious," Denise all but moaned. "Watch this," she told Taika as she turned back to you. "Tell him to straighten his back." 

"This feels like I'm exploiting him somehow, you do it." 

"He's not gonna listen to me, I don't have the voice," she teased back, and then sighed. "The sooner you convince Taika, the sooner we can fix the scene." 

"Ugh, fine. Taika? Look at Tom." You took another breath, finding that voice once again in no time. "Straighten your back." Once again, your breath caught in your throat with a hideous sound as you watched him wordlessly follow your instructions. "That's what I mean," you addressed Taika once more. "People take one look at that scene, see his posture and--"

"Apologies, goddess." 

It felt like your spine had been replaced with pure ice as you watched Taika's jaw go slack, heard Chris choking on air in the background, and your two fellow set designers and friends start giggling once more as soon as the soft-spoken words were uttered from the mouth of one Thomas William Hiddleston.

"What did you call me??" 

"Ohh I think we know what he called you. Goddess," Taika taunted. "Right then, we need to get this man off his knees," he said, turning to the crew and giving them instructions to reset the scene.

"So what? We're gonna have him stand now?" one of the assistant producers sneered. "Way to take us out of the moment, Y/L/N. Fucking buzzkill," she muttered.

"I'm not telling you to make him stand, I'm just telling you to get him off his knees," you countered. "It's not my fault that your comprehension's lacking." 

The assistant started to make a motion towards you as if you bitch slap you, but the director stood in her way. "Don't even think about it. That's a one way ticket to Tom's shit list if you lay a hand on her," he threatened, and you watched as the AP looked over to the corner of the set with wide eyes. When you followed her gaze, your eyes widened as well at the sight of Tom with a borderline murderous look in his eyes. 

"Don't," he said simply. The AP backed off, muttering something about favoritism that you couldn't quite catch. 

"Alright then, lil mayhem, this is your idea. Run the show." You stared at Taika with incredulity. "You're the one who wants him off his knees? You get him off his knees. Call the shots."

You scrambled for ideas. "A chair?"

"Sorry, madam, we got nothing in props that could even look like it belongs in Sakaar. And I already know what you're gonna say, the Sakaaran standards are literally on the floor but still. A proper looking dining table chair will not fit the vibe." 

You glared at Bryan. "Then get me a cement block, a wooden platform. A fucking concrete slab. Anything, just get this man off his knees." You turned back to face Taika. "Legally, who can I yell at here without an HR violation?"

"Just those two." He pointed at your set designers. "You are their superior after all." 

You turned back to the dawdling set designers, staring at the scene laid out before them with amused looks on their faces. "Find me something." They kept staring. "NOW!!" They ran off to props like headless chickens, making both Chris and Taika break out in chuckles.

"Remind me to never get on your bad side, tiny terror," the giant Australian told you before proceeding to pat you on the head like a ferocious and yet annoyingly fluffy guard dog. "Hey Tom you can get off your knees now, you kinky little shit!" he hollered, chuckling. After a few moments he started again. "Ah, shit, Y/N be a dear? Seems he won't listen to anyone but you when he's like this." 

You groaned. "For fuck's sake," you murmured before taking another deep breath, slipping into your natural voice once more. "Stand up." The next moments felt like a sucker punch to your entire system as he once again followed your instructions, afterward stealing a glance at your direction with the softest look in his eyes and a sweet smile that left you completely breathless.

What was he up to? Why was he acting like this?

Fifteen minutes later, Bryan and Denise came rushing back in with a platform box painted a distressed teal setting it down on the ground near the now standing Tom.

The next 13 hours of the day were comparatively less eventful than the start of your day. Rearranging sets, reviewing shots for possible continuity errors that you were sure Twitter would crucify you all for if they caught wind of it, and the occasional bitchy stare down with that PA from earlier this morning who tried to smack you for daring to mock her comprehension skills.

"Let's call it for the day, everybody!" Taika hollered from his director chair, now thankfully wearing more normal clothes and not that spandex CGI suit. "I'll see you in twelve hours. Get some sleep, don't go out drinking because if you come to set tomorrow hung over I will have your head." Everyone murmured their assent as they moved about, wrapping up their tasks for the day, and he turned to you. "Lil mayhem, try to get some tonight. I'm saying this as a friend. You're wound up." 

"Honestly, T, it's just the whole 'she's a domme' thing from earlier. Really threw me in for a loop. I should be fine after some sleep," you reassured him, making sure to pick up a copy of tomorrow's call sheet to do some prep work before you eventually succumb to the sweet lonely embrace of solitary slumber in your hotel room. "Go, T. I can lock up tonight. FaceTime your kids, tell them you love them, read them a bedtime story. I'm sure they miss their dad." 

He took a few moments before giving you an exaggerated sigh and tossing you the keys. "You drive a hard bargain, Y/L/N." He walked over to you, ruffling your hair. "You're the best." 

"I know I know. Go. I'll do a quick sweep, make sure nobody gets locked in here for the night and we get here with someone banging on the door screaming 'let me out let me out'." You grabbed the clipboard containing a checklist of the areas you were to double check on before locking up and proceeded to glance over each area of the set. 

Just as you were wrapping up your check of the cast trailers, a voice in the relative darkness startled you. "Miss Y/L/N." You straightened your posture and started fumbling in your pocket for something, anything to defend yourself with. Then you remembered the keys, so you quickly started threading each key in between your fingers, when you felt two large hands gently grasp your shoulders. "Shh shh, it's alright. It's just me. You're safe."

You let out the heaving breath you were holding, recognizing the voice immediately. "Tom," you breathed out, the fear leaving your body, but the tension remaining. "Fucking hell I was about to stab you." You felt your spine go frigid as you felt him pressing tender kisses to the top of your head as his hand traveled down your arm to deftly remove the keys from between your fingers. 

"I didn't mean to startle you," he whispered into your hair, his hand once again traveling up your arm and resumed its place on your shoulder. "I simply wanted to ensure you were safe. I didn't see you come out of the studio." He moved his head to press a kiss to your temple. "I apologize, goddess."

There was that name again, stealing all the breath from your lungs and making you question so much about you. About him. But mostly it made you question…"Why do you keep calling me that?" 

His hand traveled up to lightly grasp your chin, urging you to turn your head and look up at him. "Because that's what I call you," he answered simply, bringing his face much closer to yours. Once he was close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, he whispered, "When I dream of you." 

Instead of saying anything, you opted to bring your hand up to the back of his neck, threading your fingers through his short dark blond curls and gently pulling him down towards you, touching your lips to his briefly in a tentative, fleeting kiss. This led to him quickly turning you to face him, lifting you by the backs of your thighs, and backing you into the side of the nearest trailer. 

When he had you securely trapped between him and the trailer, he brought his hand up to cup your face, while the other roamed from your thigh and up the side of your body. Your breath hitched in your throat as you felt his thumb lightly graze the side of your breast. 

Just as he was about to lean in to kiss you, you breathed out, "Wait." He stopped immediately, his eyes quickly becoming apologetic. "I-I don't know…" you stammered, trying to find your words, but quickly realizing that the most honest words you had at the moment were, "I don't know how to be what you want. I don't know anything--" 

A smile of relief began to spread across his face. "It's alright." He pressed a quick kiss to your lips, as if to reassure you. "I simply want you, Y/N. As you are." A soft kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. "I want to make you happy." A kiss to the skin below your ear, before placing his hand lightly around your throat, sending a thrill throughout your entire body, and then whispering, "I want to satisfy you." 

"And what do you get out of this?" you breathed out. "Seems to me I'm the only one benefiting from this, that's not right." 

"Me? That's easy," he murmured against your skin as he rolled his hips into yours, causing you to let out an obscene moan that echoed through the dark empty halls of the studio. "I get you." 

This was an unusual morning. Unusual in the sense that this time, you were not woken up by the scandalous sound of your alarm, rather you'd awoken in this blissful, sated state. Your mind raced through the memories from last night, how you'd practically raced to your hotel room hand in hand with Tom after you'd locked up in the studio. 

The almost reverent way he stripped you of your clothing, pausing to press kisses to every new area of skin exposed to him, how he already had you a writhing mess before he even took off your panties. How he brought you and pushed you well past the point of complete ecstasy with his fingers and his mouth multiple times before he even made love to you.

Repeatedly.

You bit your lip as the memories came at you in vivid detail, pushing yourself off of your bed to get ready for the day ahead. Before you could even begin to inch yourself out of the bed, an arm tightened around your waist, pulling your naked body against a broad, toned, equally naked form. 

A smile found its way to your face with no effort at all as you placed your hand over the arm wrapped around you, your fingertips tracing the length of the forearm, causing him to stir and press his body even closer to yours. A hybrid between a giggle and a moan escaped your lips as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his hum of satisfaction vibrating throughout your body. 

He moved his kisses across your shoulder, pausing for a good few moments on the juncture of your shoulder and your neck before moving up to your ear and whispering in the most delicious sleep-laden voice, "Good morning, goddess." 

A/N: Please don't crucify me for the non-smutty implied smut, I am babie. But the idea refused to leave my head so I had to write it.

This insanity was based off of this post because I'm gonna be honest, my brain went places when I saw those pictures. AND THE GIF

Here's a bonus gif for those who read until the end:

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the final Lady Sharpe part 8: a new beginning

Series Masterlist See my full list of works here!

Part of the 500 Follower Celebration Requested by: @ellooo0ooo

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

Pairing: Thomas Sharpe x Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

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

Things to be aware of: Thomas & Reader are married

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that settled it. You had to push on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thomas--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now here he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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