redbloodedgurl

[redbloodedgurl]

FUCK YEAH!!!!!! I’m so happy about this. I was doubting reading at first because it’s always the same. Going from one psycho to the other and she is so weak that she can’t defend herself. But I’m blown away by how this ended.

I loooooveeee iiiit. Thank you for doing something different for a change 🥰 and thank you for sharing 💕

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤!𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫. 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞, 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟒𝟕𝟗𝟖

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫. 𝐊𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭. 𝐃𝐮𝐛 𝐂𝐨𝐧 (𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲). 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 (𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐲). 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐭𝐰𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬? 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔!

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐰! 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐱 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭! 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 @ramp-it-up 𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝟓𝐊 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞! 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 @navybrat817 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐡𝐲𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐬 🥰

𝐀𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤!

Bucky wished he could say he was surprised when he saw that Steve was at the bar with a woman, but if he was honest with himself, he really wasn’t. You might’ve left Steve a short four weeks ago, leaving his friend furious, raging, violent and broken, but Bucky knew Steve. Had known about him for a long time, longer really than he had acknowledged before you came into Steve Rogers’ life. Steve Rogers had always been the nervously charming one between them, even after he’d grown up, his tiny frame filling out with height and muscle that sent most women swooning. He was the type that lured women in, making them think that he was the perfect man, humble and sweet… and then he turned.

So even though you’d ghosted his best friend after a year, and Steve had been heartbroken, Bucky couldn’t say he was shocked that he’d moved on so quickly. Steve hadn’t really loved you, had he? Bucky had known that the first time he’d noticed you moving too stiffly, or when you’d started wearing long sleeves in the summer. Steve’s version of love had been violent control that had snapped when you’d left him all alone.

He had to wonder if this new one would survive his friend the way that you did.

“Hey, buddy,” Steve clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, pearly whites blinding in his smile even in the dim light of the bar, “I want to you to meet Mindy,”

“Hey,” the younger woman wiggled manicured fingers at Bucky in a quick wave. She also had bright white teeth, a toothpaste commercial smile. That’s how you had looked before Steve had…

“Hi, Mindy, I’m Bucky,” he held out his left hand deliberately, watched Mindy as she squeezed his hand in a shake, and as her face fell before she could control it. Bucky smirked at the look of shock that ruined that sunny smile, and drew his gloved hand back, “I lost my arm when we were kids. Doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“N-no! Of course not!” Mindy drew herself back up to her diminutive height, looking to Steve quickly, “I’m sorry, I just-”

“Don’t apologise, it’s fine, you didn’t know because Steve didn’t tell you.” Bucky saw the brief scowl on Steve’s face before it was wiped away, and he quickly asked what they wanted to drink. Steve wanted a beer, and asked for a vodka soda for Mindy before she could reply to Bucky, 

“Remember your weight goals, honey?”

“Oh, yeah, thanks, Steve!” Mindy grinned up at Bucky when he raised an eyebrow, “I’m going on vacation in a few months with the girls, you know? I want to look beach ready!”

Bucky paid for the drinks, taking a gulp of his before he could reply. Judging by the look on his friend's face, and the way he ordered food for Mindy as well - a salad with no dressing - Steve had already started his controlling behaviour with the girl. She was younger than you by at least ten years, maybe more, and didn't seem to realise the danger. Maybe he would help her before it was too late, like it had been with you.

“Wow, you barely let that food sit on the plate, doll,” Bucky laughed at how quickly you’d eaten the caesar wrap you’d ordered at the diner you’d asked to meet him at, and you’d stuck your tongue out at him childishly, 

“Shut up. I’m doing this fasting thing for Steve-”

“For Steve?”

“I- yeah, no, not like that, I mean, it was his idea. We’re both doing it!”

“Uh huh,”

“Anyway, I’m starving today, and as you’re paying, this won’t show up on my bank statement. It’s the perfect crime!” You’d grinned then, not seeing anything wrong with what you’d just said, and then you’d scowled when Bucky brought up the bank statement, 

“Yeah, it’s not like he checks religiously or anything, but we’re trying to save up for this vacation next year, and we’re making it a competition to see who can save more, is all,” you’d shrugged, “anyway, you wanted to talk about going halves on a gift for his birthday?”

The subject had been changed and Bucky had let it go. That had been four months into your and Steve’s relationship, and whilst he had felt pretty close to you, it wasn’t close enough to pry further. The fact that you hadn’t  replied to any of his texts for weeks afterwards had been the biggest signal to him after that. Steve had pulled you away.

Bucky resolutely hadn’t brought you up during the dinner, but as soon as Mindy left to “powder her nose” - leaving her phone on the table within Steve’s reach of course - Bucky put his cutlery down and caught his friends gaze, 

“Really? So quickly?”

Steve didn’t meet Bucky’s eyes, just picked up Mindy’s phone and unlocked it, “What are you talking about, Buck?”

“I’m talking about your new chick - because she looks like she’s barely out of college by the way - what happened to finding Y/N?”

Steve rolled his eyes, before putting Mindy’s phone back on the table, “Mindy is twenty six, I’ll have you know,”

“What an old hag,”

“Don’t play righteous with me, Bucky, I know you wouldn’t say no to getting someone younger if you could,” Steve scoffed, “look, I’m only human, okay? Y/N left me. The bitch left me!”

It was good that Mindy chose that moment to return, because Bucky had just cracked his glass by squeezing it so hard.

“So, how did you guys meet?” Bucky ground out after Mindy had got situated back in her seat. She looked to Steve first, and then smiled eagerly, 

“We actually met at this art showcase in Brooklyn, my friend was displaying her art there, and Steve was being so insightful and kind… then he turned those baby blues on me and I melted.”

Bucky fixed his smile to his face. Mindy was describing how Steve had met you.

“Yeah I met the most beautiful woman tonight, Buck, so talented and funny and strong. Her art is incredible, I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

Mindy wasn’t the artist here though. That’s what had eroded the relationship between you and Steve, though Bucky hadn’t realised until too late, he had foolishly thought it was because Steve had been insecure in general. It hadn’t been about that, it had been that you were more successful than Steve at the career he had always dreamed of but hadn’t quite the talent for.

“Do you know what Y/N did, Bucky? She bought me my dream motorcycle! The one I always wanted!” Steve’s voice was quietly passionate, in the way that Bucky knew meant bad news, so he kept his voice even when he answered,

“You’re so lucky to have a girl like that, man. My last girlfriend barely remembered I had a birthday,”

Steve’s glare could blister paint, “She humiliated me in front of my work buddies by doing that. What kind of woman makes more money than her man?”

“It’s the twenty-first century, remember?” Bucky rolled his eyes, flicking through the apps on the TV before settling on Netflix like he always did, “And you met Y/N at her own art show, dumbass, what made you think that she didn’t have her own money?”

Steve flopped down on the couch next to him, thrusting his hand into his hair, and tugging, “I know… I just can’t compete with that, you know? The most I can afford to get her is maybe a mini shopping trip to Barnes and Noble or something. It’s not the same.”

“You’re such an idiot. Women love book stores.” Bucky ignored Steve as he picked a movie, and then went to order food, “You want pepperoni again?”

A week later, Steve had ‘accidentally’ crashed and totaled the bike, and you had fallen down the stairs at home and fractured your wrist. Not long after, you’d moved into Steve’s apartment, and seeing you had become even harder.

Steve smiled an indulgent smile at his clueless girlfriend, “You were the only art I saw that night, baby,”

“Steve!” Mindy simpered, “You’re the sweetest!”

“Uh huh.” Bucky took a large gulp of his drink, looking away as Steve grabbed Mindy’s chin, tilting her head to claim her lips in a possessive kiss that made Bucky’s head pound. “I’m uhhh… that’s a nice meet cute, I guess,”

Steve used to do this to you, if he ever let you out in public of course. He would hold on tight, kiss you and grab at you, claiming you in a way that held nothing of love, and everything of control. The last time Steve had done it - right before you’d finally left Steve alone - his friend had all but undressed you in front of Bucky, and then turned those cold blue eyes on him,

“She’s mine, Buck. You can’t have her, so stop trying.”

The dinner went by pretty quickly after that, Mindy asked a few questions, showing a charm and wit that Bucky could admit was endearing. No wonder Steve seemed enamoured. Bucky raised an eyebrow when the desert menu came and Steve didn’t say anything when Mindy ordered a triple chocolate brownie. Then he rolled his eyes when Steve pulled Mindy to him on a growl,

“You’ll work those calories off with me later, huh, honey?”

“Oh, you’re bad, Steve!”

“Bad to the bone…er.”

A flush came over Mindy’s cheeks, and Bucky almost felt sorry for her. The feeling didn’t last though, Bucky knew this relationship wasn’t going to last as long as yours had done with Steve. 

It had rained whilst they were eating, the sidewalks glittered with it, the cars gliding over the water creating a peaceful kind of music that helped Bucky’s shoulders ease as the three of them stepped out onto the street. As long as Steve was happy, that was all that mattered to Bucky, and he said as much to his friend whilst Mindy got into Steve’s car. Bucky hugged Steve back when he was pulled into a hug, his smile morphing to a grin for brief moment as Steve murmured in his ear,

“Thanks, buddy, Mindy is The One. I don’t care about Y/N anymore. Fuck her if she didn’t see what was right in front of her, I got you, and I got Mindy. What else does a man need?”

Bucky’s face was schooled back into the more gentle smile Steve would expect when he pulled away, and he grasped his shoulder, “Exactly. Like I said, I’m happy for you.”

“What about you?” Steve took a step towards his car, “We need to find you a girl as well.”

Bucky’s stomach did a flip, and apparently his face betrayed his emotions because Steve’s face split into a grin, “You’ve met someone!” he ignored Bucky as he tried to back away from the conversation, grabbing his arm and pulling him back to the car, “Hey, get back here, you can’t leave me hanging like that! You haven’t had a girl in what… five years?”

“Six, actually,” Bucky shrugged, “Look, it’s still really new, I don’t want to jinx it, you know?” He watched as a look came over Steve’s face, as his friend kept his cold blue eyes on him, his smile going icy, 

“You know… I always thought you had a thing for Y/N. This ‘new girl’ wouldn’t be her, would it?” Steve’s hand curled into a fist, his knuckles turning bright white against his gold skin, “You know I would kill you both. I’d never forgive you, or her.”

Bucky thought that maybe he should feel scared of that threat, or even upset. Anything, other than the nothing that he felt as he burst into laughter in Steve’s face, clapping him on the back as the tension broke and he joined in, their mirth at the idea of Bucky stealing you away from Steve filling the air, 

“C’mon, Steve, as if I’d ever try and steal your girl. You just pushed her too hard, you wanted too much- no, don’t get angry, you know I’m right about this,” Bucky raised an eyebrow at his friend, Steve’s jaw muscle jumping as he ground his teeth together, but he nodded, 

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Exactly.” Bucky waved through the windshield at Mindy, and then started backing away from Steve towards the other end of the block where he’d found parking, “Take care of her. Relationships are precious, you don’t know how long they could last.”

Driving out of the city, Bucky had ignored the firetrucks and police cruisers as they zipped past him going in the opposite direction, he had a long drive ahead of him, and he couldn’t afford to not concentrate and get into an accident. He hadn’t told Steve about his new place, he hadn’t told anyone in fact. It was an old place that had been left to him about six months ago by a relative he’d never even heard of. His first thought had been to sell it, take the money and use it to find somewhere closer to the city, but within ten minutes of setting foot inside, Bucky had changed his mind. When the neighbours asked - not that there were many - Bucky had said he was doing it up on the inside, that he was hoping to sell it in the future.

He’d lied.

The basement had been renovated, fitted with a kitchenette, a bathroom and a shower, heating, and air conditioning. The rickety old staircase had been replaced with a much stronger metal one, and the door leading to the main house had a lock that only opened with his fingerprint. There were no windows, and it was so heavily soundproofed that his voice sounded muffled whenever he was in there, and no sound could be heard from outside, Bucky had checked.

He listened now as he pulled up into his driveway, just in case, but it was as quiet as the grave. The people who lived in this small cul-de-sac were all old, this type of area had been up and coming back in the sixties, now it was run down and outdated, just waiting for some developer to come in, tear it all down and start over again, the circle of capitalism in America. Right now though, it was safe.

He brought his to-go box with him as he walked from his car to the porch, whistling a little tune to himself as he unlocked his home. Steve hadn’t even noticed that Bucky had ordered enough for two, he’d been too intense on keeping both beady eyes on Mindy all night, and staring down every other man in the immediate vicinity to pay attention to Bucky. The food had long gone cold, but that was okay, he could warm it up whilst he unwound. His phone pinged as he locked the front door behind him, a notification coming up that made him smile and his heart race. Finally. He almost skipped to the door leading down to the basement, Bucky had been waiting for this moment for over six months in total. 

You’d only been in his basement four weeks though.

When this house had suddenly appeared, Bucky knew it was a sign. Things were escalating between you and Steve, he was becoming more dangerous and unhinged, and even though you never said anything to Bucky - you couldn’t with the way Steve watched you and kept you from communicating - Bucky knew you wanted him to save you. It had killed him a little to wait, to take the time to make this place perfect for you, a safe haven for you to wait out the next stage in his plan to have you at his side, but it was all worth it now. His mouth watered at the thought of your reaction to his news. The door was heavy as he opened it, and closed on a whoosh of air. Bucky’s steps were silent down the stairs, the bars surrounding the space coming into view, before he got to the barred gate at the foot of the stairs. The key for the gate was around his neck. It wasn’t about keeping you prisoner, it was about keeping a world that had treated you so badly away from you so you could heal.

The first week had been a shock, you’d fought Bucky so hard that he’d had to restrain you to stop you hurting yourself. He couldn’t blame you for your anger or fear though, not after everything Steve had done to you. It took a few days, but eventually you’d listened to him explain what he’d done. How he’d made it look like you’d left Steve and moved away. How he’d taken all of your art and held it in storage for you. You were safe now with him, could build a better life once everything was in place. 

Which, now, it was.

“Hey, sweetheart, I have the best news, c’mere,”

“Bucky, you’re home!” You wore the sundress he liked best on you, and a smile that could light up even this sunless space. He’d installed lights that were supposed to mimic the sun rising and setting, but he could tell by the pallor of your skin that it wasn’t really helping and your sleep schedule was still off. It didn’t matter, by tomorrow morning, you could come into the main body of the house with him, into the garden. Bucky breathed in your scent as you wrapped your arms around his neck eagerly, his own going around your waist and squeezing, 

“Wow, what did I do to deserve this, doll?”

“I just missed you, is all, you smell great, Bucky,” your nose pressed to his neck, your lips like feathers just fluttering against his skin enough to make him shiver, “what’s the good news?”

Your voice was husky, Bucky felt himself harden inside his pants. He hadn’t touched you, even though he really wanted to. He’d been scrupulous in making you trust him, in making you understand that he wasn’t Steve, he wouldn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want to do. The most he’d done is stroked himself to completion over the CCTV camera images that he watched when you were alone, but you didn’t know about those. Your resolve was weakening though, he could tell. More and more recently you’d been the one to initiate touching. You’d been wearing the dresses instead of the t-shirts and jeans. Even your laundry was full of the lace and silk and satin underwear he’d picked out, and not the plain cotton. Now, with what he’d just found out, you’d fall even further into his arms-

“Bucky?”

He pulled away, a smile on his face, and handed you his phone, watching as your eyes darted to the screen and the news bulletin on there. There was no signal down here of course, but he’d downloaded the video, and screenshot the relevant threads he’d seen online. Frown lines appeared on your face, Bucky’s heart jackhammered behind his ribcage, his breath stolen from his lungs when you turned tear filled eyes on him, 

“That was Steve’s car?” Bucky nodded slowly, watching you carefully as you took it in. How Steve’s car had blown up, what looked like a freak accident as he’d started the motor, sending him and Mindy into a fiery death. Bucky felt bad about Mindy, the poor girl hadn’t deserved it, not really, but this was better. Steve couldn’t hurt her anymore, and most importantly, he couldn’t hurt you.

You could really be his now. In the sunlight.

 “You… you killed him?”

“You would never be safe if he’d stayed around, doll,” Bucky tentatively put his hand on your shoulder, breathed out a relieved breath when you didn’t pull away, “He would’ve found you eventually, hurt you for leaving him-”

“I didn’t leave Steve, you took me-”

“To save you! He was hurting you!”

You wipe at the tears coating your eyelashes, “And this other person in the car?”

Bucky felt his face heat at the condemnation in your voice, “She… he was hurting her too. I didn’t want to, but it’s better this way, for her and for us- I mean for you…”

He waited. It felt like an eternity, but Bucky waited for your reaction. Would you scream? Yell? Celebrate with him? Would you hate him for what he’s done and never forgive him? Would you never talk to him again? If you asked now, would he let you out? Bucky didn’t know the answer to that last one, he didn’t want to think about it. Steve was dead, Bucky had planted the device on his car before he’d gone into the restaurant knowing full well that this would be the last meal he ever shared with him, but it didn’t matter because it was all for you.

Now though, you wouldn’t need his protection. Could he let you leave?

The terrifying question was banished from his head when you suddenly reared up, and threw yourself into his arms, your lips pressing to his in a desperate hunger that almost shocked Bucky.

Thankfully, instinct took over, and he kissed you back, pausing only long enough to pull away, close his hand over your throat, look into your eyes, “Doll?”

“No one has ever taken care of me like that, Bucky. Loved me enough to protect me like that.” He could feel the frantic beat of your pulse beneath his palm, and realised he needed these fingers to feel other softer places sooner rather than later. Your eyes, irises swallowed by your pupils, went heavy lidded as his own gaze dropped to your lips, “Touch me, Bucky. I want you to.”

Bucky swallowed, leaned back in to kiss you deeply, savouring the taste of you on his tongue. He wanted to take his time, eat you up small bite by small bite, but he was a starving man in front of an all too eager banquet, he couldn’t take too long seducing you or he’d explode.

He dropped his right hand to the front of your skirt, inching it up your thighs, holding your gaze as he took your hand and brought it to the front, “Hold your dress up for me, doll,”

“Yes, sir,”

Bucky groaned, kissing you again… then he gently tapped the inside of your thigh, opening your legs just enough that he could push his hand in between, glide two fingers over the fabric of your panties, and to the swollen nub of your clit, “God… you’re wet already, doll?”

“I’ve been thinking about you all day, Bucky, knowing that you’ve been thinking about me as well, I- oh!” Your words choke off when he glides his middle finger underneath the fabric, sliding home inside you on a smooth push. Your fingers grasp onto his wrist, almost enough to hurt, making Bucky smile against your neck, 

“You want another finger, doll?”

“I-”

Bucky pulls out instead, going to his knees before pulling down your underwear in one swift move, he uses his metal fingers to spread your lower lips, then he follows through on his question, sinking two fingers into your tight cunt, and using his thumb to rub circles against your clit, 

“Every inch of you is perfect, and you’re all mine,” Bucky paused to press a kiss to your clit, flicking it with his tongue eagerly, “You were made for this. Made for me.”

“Bucky-”

“It’s okay, doll, let yourself go, you’re beautiful, I can’t wait to see you fall apart…” Bucky said everything in a stream of love that he couldn’t hold back, everything that he’s ever wanted to say to you since he first met you, everything he knew Steve would never say as he brutalised and battered you. Bucky would never allow any hurt like that to come to you again. He would worship the ground you walked on if you would only let him. When you came on a desperate cry of his name, Bucky helped you ride it out, fucking you gently with his fingers, rising to kiss your tears away, 

“Hey… don’t cry, baby,”

“I’m… please, Bucky, I can’t wait any longer…” You forcefully brush your tears away, pulling at his shirt until it fell from his shoulders on a heap on the ground, “Please, I need you inside me.”

When Bucky tried to tug at your dress, bring it up and over your shoulders, you push him off, “Later, I want you, only you… take your time on me later.”

“So eager for my cock, doll, it’s a good thing that I’ve been as desperate for you as well,” Bucky pushed down his pants, hooking your leg around his waist as he pushed you back against the table in the centre of the room. His cock slid through your folds, you’re warm and wet and desperate… and then he sinks home inside you, the thrust slow, almost agonising, you’re much tighter than he expected, “Is this okay? I’m not hurting you?”

“No… keep going… I want this, I want you, I want you, I want you…” you pull him closer, Bucky barely realised that it was by the key on his necklace, he was too caught up in feeling your lips on his, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, your grip on the key so strong that he couldn’t pull away-

The pain in his side was surprisingly subtle. For a brief and glorious moment, Bucky thought it was indigestion, he almost blushed in embarrassment - he finally gets the girl of his dreams on his dick, and his gut causes problems.

But then another sharp pain, this one agonising enough to make him gasp and pull away. He barely had time to see the bloody piece of metal in your hand before he fell to his knees in front of you. Bucky tried to say your name, confusion and pain lancing through him, but you step away, running somewhere behind him on a sob.

It’s funny. Even after you’ve stabbed him, all he wants to do is hold you as you cry.

Your feet come back into his line of sight, he’s on his back now but Bucky doesn’t remember falling there. You’re wearing the jeans he picked out underneath the sundress spotted with his blood, and it looks like you’ve stolen his boots, laced severely so they don’t fall off. His hand, coated blood red, reaches up to you as you lean down over him, for a wonderful moment he thinks that you’re going to try and hold him. He’s very cold now…

But no, you yank off the key around his neck on a grunt.

“I’m leaving now, Bucky. I’m taking your car, and I’ll call the police after a few miles head start. They’ll find you and arrest you, and you’ll get to a hospital. You should live.”

Bucky closes his eyes, a smile on his face, “You can’t leave me, doll… you need a fingerprint…” his voice is slurred, he’s pretty sure that the police won’t be in time but it doesn’t matter because you can’t go anywhere anyway, “You’re… stupid for this… doll-”

“I’m not the stupid one, Bucky,” you’re grunting as you talk, Bucky hears groaning and scraping, watches as the bed is dragged closer. The heavy, metal, square edged bed frame that seemed like a good idea at the time, “you’re the idiot who kidnapped me instead of just helping me,”

“I did help you… you’re safe…”

“I’m a captive in a room with cameras. Yeah, I found them, you didn’t even try to hide them because you only see me as an object, just like Steve.” You look down at him, a sneer on your face, “You didn’t even realise I’d pulled metal out of that staircase, or that I’d been sharpening it on this bed. Idiot.”

“Y/N-”

“Shut up. Or don’t. No one can hear you scream down here, I know, I’ve tried.” 

With that, you lifted and dropped the frame above his wrist.

Bucky must’ve passed out, because when he wakes, you’re pulling the gate closed behind you, the key in one hand and his own severed appendage in your other. Part of him wishes that his dead hand won’t work, you’ll be forced to stay down here with him, die with him. He could change the settings on the door so his prosthetic will work instead, but - no. You’d thought of that too. His left arm was mangled as well, as useless as his mutilated right.

“I love you, Y/N… Y/N?” 

You don’t answer. The door is closed, this time on him.

[redbloodedgurl]

You know…idk shit about football hahaha but I absolutely loved this monster of a one shot.

It’s so refreshing reading new things. Yesterday I was thinking about that and this is like a march present 🎁

I loved the dad and the fact that she’s a BAMF!!!

Thank you so much for sharing and I will absolutely read a part 2. I loved that there’s no Natasha or Peggy here hahahaha

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

[redbloodedgurl]

Heeeelllllll yeah!!!!! Women in places of power are a rare breed in this app.

I loveeeeee everything about this. She’s a BAMF.

Thank you so much for sharing. Can’t wait for the bonus chapter 🥰🥰

Bloody Mary

Summary : When you inherit a criminal empire from your father, Bucky Barnes decides to investigate you. He hadn’t expected you to be so… charming.

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

Warnings/tags : Lots and lots of sexual tension, sexual themes, power dynamics, fluff and a bit of angst. Canon-compliant-ish. Jealous!Bucky, Congressman!Bucky. Mentions of trauma, death, slight violence. Daredevil makes a cameo. Your mafia nickname is ‘Bloody Mary’ but isn’t mentioned too much. Obsessive and possessive-ish love. Bucky stalks you at the beginning but it's for work.

Word Count : 7.5k

Notes : Hi all! There are so many great stories out there with mob!bucky, so I played around with the idea and ended up with this! I just really love the idea of Bucky falling in love with powerful women lol. Enjoy!

Your father’s death was not a tragedy.  

It was an inevitability.

The man had too many enemies. He had ruled Manhattan’s underworld with an iron fist. The rich paid for his protection, laundering their wealth through the bullshit fine art sales that acted as a front to his criminal empire. Money flowed in through the gallery, and with it, he had an unspoken rule: if you wanted to do business in Manhattan, you paid your dues to your father.  

For years, you watched him build and maintain that very empire, knowing you would one day inherit it. You grew up surrounded by men who respected your father not because they believed in him, but because they feared him. He was one of those assholes who simply believed in the natural order of things— that power belonged to those strong enough to hold it.  

When he died— poisoned, most likely— you didn’t cry.  

You just sat before your father’s grand mahogany desk. 

For years, your father’s enemies called you Bloody Mary– a reference to the ghost, but more likely, the queen who came before. They thought of you as your father’s most loyal asset. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Your family, your father’s men, gathered after the funeral, waiting to see what you would do. Some expected you to crumble under the slightest bit of pressure. Others expected you to follow in your father’s footsteps, continuing the cycle of violence without hesitation.  

But they underestimated you.  

You took your father’s empire and turned it on its head.  

The rich still paid their dues. You still ran the protection racket. The fine art front still laundered money. On the surface, it looked like business as usual.  

But behind the scenes, you didn’t hoard wealth anymore, you gave it off into schools, clinics, food banks— places that actually mattered. You paid your men well so they never felt the need to betray you, and you never kept more than you needed to keep up appearances.

You had done something your father had never thought to do: You built your men’s loyalty based on something stronger than fear.  

You built respect. 

You gave them purpose beyond mindless violence and greed.

Still, you were brutal… sometimes. You made examples out of those who crossed the line, but you never ruled through unnecessary cruelty. 

You spent so many years watching your father’s empire rotting Manhattan to the core. 

But under your rule, you would reshape the city.

—

Bucky had been watching you for weeks.  

Daredevil had passed the tip that the Bloody Mary had taken over her father’s empire, and Bucky, still getting used to his new role as a congressman, had decided to investigate you himself. He expected the usual— a power-hungry heir stepping into their father’s shoes, making sure the cycle of violence and corruption stayed alive. 

Your family’s protection racket, laundered through the illusion of fine art sales, had made your family filthy rich. You could have kept it going, could have doubled your wealth and expanded your influence. But that was not what you did.

The more he watched you from the shadows, the less it made sense to him.  

He observed you handling money, moving millions through shell companies and offshore accounts. 

Dirty money. That much was clear.  

But then he saw you funnel that same money into anonymous donations. He tracked the transactions, saw the new school supplies, the renovations, the overworked but relieved doctors who suddenly had the medicine they needed to save lives. 

At first, Bucky thought it was just an act, a way to buy public goodwill while you conducted business as usual. But he soon realised it could not possibly be the case.

Your donations were always anonymous. 

You were doing this because you wanted to.

And your men— oh did they adore you.

Not out of fear. Out of loyalty. And that, Bucky knew, was more dangerous than any brute force.

Still, he wasn’t convinced. 

But then, he saw you meet with an old woman in a tiny flower shop tucked between two high-rises.  

—

Mrs. Abram had been running the shop for decades, selling fresh-cut flowers in a small stall. She has had this business since you were just a little girl, giving you day-old daisies when you walked home from school. 

She had no idea who you really were—just that you were a loyal customer, always stopping by to buy a bouquet when you had the time.  

Today, she looked worried.  

“Are you okay, Mrs. Abram?” you asked as you paid for the bouquet of white lilies that you wanted to use to decorate your mahogany table.

“Oh, my dear, I hate to burden you,” she said, frowning only a little.

“I’m all ears,” you smiled. 

“My landlord raised the rent again,” she sighed, “I don’t know how much longer I can keep the shop open.”  

You tilted your head, gears clicking together in your head. “Did he now?”  

Mrs. Abram nodded. “You know how it is, flowers aren’t exactly high-profit.” She gave you a sad smile. “Maybe it’s time for me to retire.”  

“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Abram,” you said, leaving a good tip on the cash register, “Things have a way of working themselves out.”  

That night, Bucky followed as you and your men hunted down her landlord— a corrupt official, one who owned more than a few buildings and had a habit of extorting his tenants.  

Bucky watched from the rooftops as you dragged the man into a dark alleyway, as you told him to lower the rent or never see the light of day again.

He nodded, terrified.

And just to make sure he understood the gravity of the situation, you had your men break two of his fingers before sending him on his way.  

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, you had one of your people anonymously pay for Mrs. Abram’s rent for the next twelve months.  

The next morning, Bucky was watching from across the street as you passed by the flower stall.

Mrs. Abram beamed at you. “Oh, my dear, you will never believe it!” she called out, “My landlord had a change of heart! He lowered my rent back down. Said he had a revelation last night. And that a kind stranger paid for a year of rent upfront!”  

You gasped, faking wide-eyed innocence. “That’s wonderful, Mrs. Abram.”

Bucky exhaled as his super-soldier hearing picked up the entire conversation.

“Oh.”  

This was not what he expected at all.

Now, he wasn’t sure what to do about you.  

So he kept watching.  

Until one night, you forced his hand.  

— 

It was almost midnight when you stepped into your penthouse. Bucky was already there, sneaking in hours earlier to find a document, more evidence, anything– anything at all– to justify him watching you for weeks.

He hid behind a pillar when you walked in, lurking in the shadows.

You took off your coat and dropped your keys onto the marble counter.

Okay, Bucky thought to himself. Once she’s out of the living room, I’ll get out of the house.

"It’s rude to follow a lady into her home, congressman."

Bucky froze. 

Fuck.

Then he stepped out of the shadows.

"You knew?" He asked, but there was an undertone of curiosity in his voice. 

You turned, finally meeting his stare. There was no fear in your expression, only maddening confidence. A sweet smile curled at the edge of your lips.  

"Did you really think you were being subtle?" you confirmed.

Bucky shifted his weight. "Why didn't you say anything?"  

You shrugged and began walking toward the hallway. He hesitated for half a second before following you.

"I want you to figure it out yourself," you said as you pushed open the bathroom door but didn’t bother to close it. “I know the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen thinks I am an extension of my father, but he believes that because I want him to believe it. And now you know I’m not the bad guy.”

Bucky leaned against the doorframe. "So what exactly are you?"  

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached behind you and pulled the zipper of your dress down, the silky fabric sliding off your shoulders. You let it pool at your feet before stepping out of it.  

Bucky quickly turned his head away, heat rising to his cheeks.

You laughed quietly. "You can look if you want." You stepped into the glass-walled shower, unhooking your bra and slipping out of your remaining underwear. "You’re not getting shy now, are you?"  

Bucky kept his eyes on the ceiling. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.  

"You’ve been watching me for weeks," you teased, turning on the shower and washing dried blood off your hands. “Surely you already know what I look like by now."  

Bucky forced himself to look at you— not fully, but enough. You were standing under the stream of water, eyes half-lidded, as you shampooed your hair. 

You were… completely at ease in your own skin.  

Bucky had been prepared for a cold-blooded crime boss. He had been prepared for easy to hate.  

He hadn’t been prepared for you.  

Charming. Smart. Good, in your own twisted way.  

And he definitely hadn’t been prepared to find you so fucking attractive.  

"Why didn’t you say anything?" he asked again as you cleaned your body with milky soap. 

You wiped water from your face. "Because I need you."  

Bucky frowned. "For what?"  

You stayed quiet for a second, washing the bubbles away. 

Then, you turned off the shower, stepping out.

“Grab me a towel, will you?”

Bucky didn't know why, but he complied.

You took it and resumed the conversation. "Because funding schools and shelters isn’t enough," you said simply. "I am still enabling people to ruin my community."  

You wrapped the towel around yourself, walking past him like he wasn’t even there. He followed you into the bedroom.  

"I can give you the names of the people arming the streets," you said, opening a drawer and pulling out a fresh set of comfy lounging lingerie. "The people pumping drugs into the city. The corrupt cops." You turned to face him. "But they can’t know it’s me."  

Bucky crossed his arms, realising what you truly wanted. "You want me to be your middleman."  

You sat down in your bed after putting at least something on, but still showing too much skin for Bucky to think straight. "I want you to do something about it, congressman. Because I can’t."  

The filthy rich still thought they were untouchable. But now, you wanted to double-cross them. Funding communities wasn’t enough for you anymore. 

Bucky exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. He should walk away. This wasn’t the kind of alliance he was supposed to make.  

But you had information.  

And God help him, you were just so fucking persuasive.  

"Fine," he said finally. "But I’m not covering for you if this goes south."  

—

Over the next few months, your alliance grew stronger.

You and your men fed Bucky intel. He took it to the right people. Major players and corrupt government officials began dropping like flies—arrested, exiled, convicted. No one suspected you.  

Through it all, you and Bucky kept meeting. Sometimes in your penthouse, sometimes in the back room of an upscale restaurant, sometimes in a dimly lit alleyway where no one would hear you whispering names in his ear.  

At first, he called you by the name, too. Bloody Mary—like you were just another villain in the long line of Manhattan’s criminals. You did not like that. It was a name your enemies had given you. You never called yourself that. Neither did your men.

To them, you were just you.

Somewhere along the way, Bloody Mary stopped making sense.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped being just a crime boss to him.

So when he started referring to you by your name—your real name— you just smiled.

Because you knew.

You had him.

—

Bucky didn’t know why he agreed to meet you like this.  

A casual coffee walk, in broad daylight, as if you weren’t a crime boss feeding a congressman classified intel over overpriced lattes. As if you weren’t two people on opposite sides of a game neither of you should be playing together.  

And yet, here he was.  

The late afternoon sun blanketed the city in gold as the two of you strolled down the sidewalk, your coat draped over your shoulders. 

“Four big investigations in a week,” you quipped, sipping your coffee. “Busy week for the feds.”

Bucky laughed in sarcasm. “It’s almost as if someone’s feeding them information.”  

You shot him a knowing smile over the rim of your paper cup, knowing full well what you did. “Weird.”  

Bucky shook his head. He should’ve been used to this by now— the way you played with fire so arrogantly, never once thinking you might get burned.  

You walked another block, your voice just loud enough for him to hear. “The Blackwoods are smuggling firearms in waves. I’ve got two underboss names for you. Lou White and Carter Yeun. They’ll be at the warehouse on 34th Street in six days, moving a shipment.”  

You were close enough that Bucky caught the faintest scent of your amber and spice. perfume. It messed with his focus more than he cared to admit.  

He nodded. “I’ll get someone on it.”  

You smiled like you’d already known he would. 

As you neared the familiar little flower stall tucked between two high-rises, you slowed down. “Oh, look," you said, nodding toward the stall. "Mrs. Abram is working today."  

Bucky followed, watching as the old woman meticulously arranged a bundle of fresh daisies, her weathered hands moving with care.  

You slowed your pace, and without thinking, Bucky matched yours.  

Mrs. Abram looked up and smiled. "Oh, my dear! I was just thinking about you. I just got fresh batches today.”

Bucky watched as you ran your fingers over the different kinds of delicate petals. Your eyes seem linger at the colourful tulips. “These are gorgeous.”

Mrs. Abram nodded. “A beautiful girl like you deserves beautiful things."  

Bucky didn’t even think before he spoke. "She does."  

You paused, glancing at him. Bucky could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, but he refused to look away.  

Mrs. Abram, bless her, was oblivious to the tension shifting. "What a gentleman! Would you like to buy her a bouquet, dear?"  

Bucky knew he should say no. He should let you pay for your own damn flowers and keep things professional between you. But instead—  

"I’ll take the tulips," he said.  

He wasn’t sure why he did it—maybe it was the way you looked so… normal with civilians, or maybe it was the way he was starting to want things he shouldn’t.

After he paid for the flowers (and told Mrs. Abram to keep the change), the two of you walked away. 

You arched a brow. "James Barnes, buying me flowers?"  

Bucky exhaled, hastily handing you the bouquet you were going to get anyways. "Don’t make it weird."  

“Are you trying to bribe me?" you considered, accepting them with a wicked sparkle in your eye.

Bucky scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You already gave me the intel."  

"So it is just a gift, then?"  

Bucky didn’t answer. 

As you twirled one of the blooms between your fingers, Bucky swore he caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction on your face— like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Bucky didn’t know what the hell this was, this game you played with him, but he knew one thing for certain: He was losing.

—

One night, after Yeun’s and White’s successful takedown, you stood close to him in your office, swirling a glass of whiskey in one hand.  

"You like this," you observed, looking up at him through your lashes. 

Bucky scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I like locking bad rich people away."  

"You like me, too." you corrected.  

He grinded his teeth. 

"You can admit it, Barnes,” you chuckled, handing him his own glass of whiskey as you sat on your mahogany table. A bouquet of pink daisies that Bucky had picked up for you from Mrs. Abram’s stall yesterday sat pretty next to you. “I won’t bite."  

He smiled, taking a sip. "I think you would."  

You tilted your head. "Would that be such a bad thing?"  

Bucky swallowed hard.  

You set down your glass and gesture at him to come closer. He moved between your legs, almost nervously.

You reached up, fingers grazing his vibranium arm. "You’re wrapped around my little finger," you murmured, tilting your chin up toward him. "Aren’t you?"  

Bucky exhaled through his nose. His hands twitched at his sides.  

Then—finally—he grabbed you by the waist and you smiled.

Bucky’s lips were barely an inch from yours when—  

Knock knock.

“Boss?” A voice muffled by the heavy door said.

You sighed, but there was a hint of amusement in your eyes as you pulled back. Bucky let out a ragged breath, his grip on your waist tightening for just a second before he let go.  

“Not a great time, Ollie,” you called out, smoothing your clothes like you hadn’t just been in very close proximity to the former Winter Soldier.  

Oliver, your underboss, sounded apologetic. “Yeah, sorry, but you said to tell you when the files came in.”  

Your lips twitched. You glanced at Bucky, who looked half-ready to strangle Ollie once you opened the door.

You turned your back toward the door. “Give me five minutes.”  

Bucky ran a hand down his face as soon as Ollie’s footsteps retreated. “Fuck’s sake.”  

You just smirked. “What?”  

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You planned that.” he said, but the accusation was half-hearted. 

“I didn’t, but it’s not my fault you think too much, Barnes.” You tidied up your desk a little, bending over just enough to drive him utterly insane. “Could’ve had me already.”  

You liked this game. This will-they-won’t-they tension. You liked watching him struggle, watching him want.  

Bucky was a disciplined man, trained to endure pain and resist temptation.  

But you were testing the limits of his restraint.  

And you knew it.  

Bucky stepped closer. “You think this is funny, don’t you?”   

“I think,” you said, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look in your eyes, “that you like this game as much as I do.”  

Bucky’s neck muscles flexed. His eyes flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. He wanted to wipe that smug look right off your face.  

Maybe with his mouth.  

“Now, come on, Congressman,” You patted his chest lightly as you stepped past him. “We’ve got business to handle.”  

Bucky closed his eyes and clenched his fists.  

You were going to drive him insane.

—

But that was months ago. 

Tonight, the red wine in your glass swirled lazily as you leaned back in your chair. You were sitting on the table on the balcony of your penthouse. Up here, the world felt quiet. 

On the table sat a small vase of peonies— Bucky had bought them for you this week. It had become a tradition. He insisted that it was just a nice thing to do, that he bought you flowers because he wanted to keep a good professional relationship, though you knew it was bullshit. 

But now, the beautiful blooms seemed out of place considering the company you hosted tonight.

Across from you, Eddie Blackwood reclined with the arrogance of a man who had never faced real consequences. The overprivileged, overconfident son of one of New York’s most ruthless crime lords— Liam Blackwood.

The same Blackwood whose weapon shipment had been taking over the city like wildfire. Sure, Bucky had stopped a couple, but more kept coming. 

You needed to know more, so you invited Eddie here under the pretense of diplomacy.

Predictably, he had gotten the wrong idea.

"You know," Eddie murmured, swirling his wine. "I was surprised you invited me over."

You arched a brow, feigning amusement. "Hm?”

He leaned in, the scent of his cologne sickening. It was suffocating. "My father thinks you’d benefit from an alliance marriage, Bloody Mary,” he said even as you winced at the nickname. “I didn’t peg you as the type, but then… I got your call. I’m glad we’re discussing it tonight."

From the earpiece nestled discreetly in your ear, Bucky’s voice came through. He was unimpressed and already done with this conversation.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me."

You hid your smirk behind a sip of wine.

Eddie couldn’t hear him. But Bucky could hear everything. And it was killing him.

You had asked him for a favour tonight. You had stationed him on the rooftop across the street, watching through the scope of a sniper, his finger resting near the trigger. He was there as a precaution, in case things went south.

"You’re mistaken," you said smoothly, setting your glass down.

“No?” Eddie grinned, mistaking your resistance for playing hard-to-get. “Then why did you invite me here?"

For information.

His father was too smart to talk. But Eddie? Eddie was an idiot. And you knew men like him would spill anything, given the right… distraction.

So you played along.

For now.

His fingers traced the rim of his glass before sliding onto your knee.

"He’s getting handsy." Bucky snarled in your earpiece. "I’ll fucking shoot him," 

You shook your head subtly, just enough to get your point across to the super soldier. Not yet.

Eddie, blissfully unaware of the expert marksman lining up a shot on him, let his hand drift higher, resting it on your waist.

"You're tense," he said, kneading your hip. "I can fix that."

Bucky thought, Enough.

Then a single shot rang through the night.

Eddie screamed, his body jerking backward as his wine glass shattered when he dropped it. 

Across the street, Bucky’s voice came through the earpiece, utterly unapologetic.

"Oops."

You exhaled, dabbing at the corner of your lips with your napkin before standing.

"Fuck," Eddie gasped, clutching his shoulder as blood seeped between his fingers and into his very expensive ivory suit. "You— you had a sniper on me the whole time?"

You stepped around the table. He trembled  as he realized just how precarious his situation was.

You crouched beside him, gripping his bloodied shoulder hard enough to make him whimper.

"You’re going to tell me," you demanded, "where your father’s next shipment is coming from."

Eddie’s breath hitched, "I—I can’t—"

Your nails dug in his wound. "I wasn’t asking."

His eyes darted in panic, allowing a beat of silence.

"The docks," he finally choked out, his voice shaking. "Pier 7. Two weeks from now at midnight."

“See?” You smiled, patting his cheek mockingly before standing. "That wasn’t so hard."

Eddie slumped against the chair, panting. Blood dripped onto the tablecloth, staining it red.

You leaned in one last time, "If I hear you running your mouth," you said, "the next bullet will be between your eyes."

Eddie nodded frantically. 

You tilted your head toward the door. "Get out."

The moment the words left your lips, Ollie and the rest of your men moved in, hauling him to his feet. He groaned in pain as they dragged him away.

Only when the door slammed shut behind them did you let out a breath, rolling your shoulders.

"You okay?" Bucky’s voice crackled in your ear, gentler now.

You smiled, knowing he was watching.

"Nice shot, Congressman," you said, turning toward the doors. "Get down here. I have whiskey."

"On my way."

—

Your penthouse was beautiful. 

The city lights glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. But Bucky wasn’t looking at the view.

He was watching you.

You poured two glasses of whiskey and slid one toward him. You were still in your dinner dress with a slit that rode high up your thigh.

Eddie Blackwood had touched you there.

Bucky hated it.

He took the glass. "You didn’t have to let him touch you," he said.

You leaned on the bar lazily. "Jealous, Barnes?"

Yes.

Yes, he was.

And he fucking hated himself for it.

This—whatever this was between you—wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a business arrangement. But every time another man so much as looked at you, a sense of possession coiled in his chest.

You stepped closer, tilting your head, studying him like you could read his thoughts. 

Bucky knocked back his whiskey in one go. It burned, but not as much as the fire curling in his stomach.

"You had me watching through a damn scope while he put his hands on you," he muttered, setting the empty glass down with a clink. "You think that was fun for me?"

"Relax," you teased, running a slow finger along the rim of your glass as you took another sip. "I knew you’d take the shot when I needed you to."

That only pissed him off more.

Because you had trusted him. Enough to put yourself in harm’s way, to let another man touch you, knowing that Bucky would be jealous enough to end it before things went too far.

Your underbosses still lingered at the entrance of the penthouse, waiting for your next order. 

"Ollie, Jack," you said, turning towards them. "Do you boys want a drink?"

They both shook their heads no, murmuring their refusals.

"You should go home, then,” you continued empathetically. "Be with your families."

They hesitated, their eyes flicking toward Bucky, who stood rigid by the bar. 

You reassured them, "The Congressman will keep me safe. Right, darling?"

Bucky’s grip tightened around the edge of the bar.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your men exchanged a glance but didn’t argue. With brief goodbyes, they left.

As soon as you were alone, you turned back to Bucky as he considered his next move. 

He should leave.

He should walk out of here before this thing between you got even more complicated than it already was.

But then you took a step closer.

And Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t want to move.

You set your glass down, and leaned in, your voice dipping into a sultry whisper against the lobe of his ear.

"You know, you have no right to be jealous, James," you mentioned, your lips just barely brushing his jaw. "You don’t even have me."

Bucky gulped.

Fuck.

"But I know you want me," you continued, your voice like velvet. "But you’re just such a gentleman. You haven’t even kissed me yet."

“I know,” he confirmed, almost with regret.

“And why is that?” You asked.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

His fingers twitched with the urge to take. 

You made him reckless.

You pulled him from the bar and pushed him onto the couch, standing tall and imposing over him, the slit in your dress parting just enough to remind him of where Blackwood had touched.

Bucky’s hands found your hips before he could stop himself, gripping tight— possessive. The same hips Blackwood had squeezed before Bucky had put a bullet in his shoulder.

"Because…" he trailed off, unraveling under you.

His grip tightened.

His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths.

Then, finally, the words slipped out.

"Because I want you to claim me."

That undid you.

You had been toying with him for months, teasing, pushing and pulling until neither of you could not see where the game ended and reality began. But now there was no mistaking it.

Bucky Barnes—Congressman, soldier, sniper—wanted you.

And he wanted you to take him.

So you kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was raw, all heat and desperation. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, owning. He groaned into your mouth, his fingers digging into your hips like he was daring you to ruin him.

And you would.

Bucky pulled you down onto his lap, his hands roaming, marking you just as much as you were marking him. Your dress had ridden up high, his calloused fingers skimming your bare skin. You rocked against him, swallowing the way he gasped against your lips.

He was usually so controlled— but now he was unraveling like loose thread and you loved it.

But when you pulled back with your fingers tracing his pulse, you saw something tender in his eyes. It was more than just lust, more than just the frustration of a months-long push-and-pull finally breaking the surface.

Bucky swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling.

“You gonna run your mouth again, Congressman?” you teased, fingers still fisted in his hair.

His hands tightened on your thighs. “Depends,” he whispered, the words coming out rough. “You gonna keep pretending this doesn’t mean something to you?”

Now that was a line you hadn’t expected him to cross.

You could handle flirting. You could handle games. You could handle sexual politics. But this was dangerous.

So you could only lean in, your lips just barely grazing his again, but instead of kissing him, you whispered, “What do you want this to mean?”

Bucky’s metal fingers flexed on your skin. 

Then—

“You already know,” he rasped.

Fuck.

For all your power, for all your control— for weren’t sure if you wanted to admit it. Yet. 

Bucky was still beneath you, breath ragged, pupils blown wide. You hadn’t kissed him again. You liked watching him unravel first.

His human fingers dug into your hips and bunched the fabric of your dress. His restraint was slipping— you could see it in the way his throat worked around a swallow, in the way his hands tightened on you like he was afraid you’d disappear into thin air.

You dragged a hand down his chest. There was no more space left between you. Not physically. Not in any way that mattered.

"You’re tense, Congressman," you teased with amusement. "I can fix that."

A deep growl rumbled from his chest. "Don’t you fucking use his words on me."

He was wild. Dangerous. You liked him like this.

And when you leaned in, dragging your lips over his pulse, you felt the exact moment he shattered.

Then you lead him off of the couch and to the balcony.

—

In the morning, Bucky was still here.

You had expected him to leave. To slip out before dawn, pretending nothing happened. That’s what powerful men often did.

But instead, he was still in your bed, arm slung lazily over his eyes, chest rising and falling beautifully.

You stretched, the ache in your muscles serving as a reminder of exactly how the night had unfolded.

Bucky shifted, humming from low in his throat. Then—

"You fucked me on a balcony table." His voice was still rough with sleep, still in disbelief.

Your brow arched. "I know."

He exhaled, shaking his head as he finally turned to look at you. His hair was a mess, but he was still beautiful.

Bucky huffed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Blackwood’s blood was still on the table."

Your smile was wicked. “I know,” you repeated.

His eyes darkened.

He liked that, didn’t he?

You hummed, propping yourself on one elbow. The sheet slipped slightly, revealing the bare skin of your shoulder, the faintest trace of where Bucky had gripped you too hard and left bruises on accident— or maybe not.

Bucky flopped back against the pillows, shaking his head. “I’m gonna need to go back to therapy,” he joked. You could tell he really didn’t mean it.

You laughed, pressing your lips to his bare shoulder. "Poor thing," you teased, nipping lightly at his skin. "Invoice me. I’ll pay for the sessions.”

—

You hadn’t meant for it to become a pattern, hadn’t planned for Bucky to become a fixture in your bed, but that’s exactly what happened.   

The first night happened almost two weeks ago, now, he was coming over every other day. You’d call him over under the guise of business, giving him another scrap of intel about the Blackwood arms deal, another excuse to keep him coming. Then, when business concluded, you let him stay.   

You liked it that way.   

Your men knew the drill. You’d tell them to leave, to go home, that The Congressman would keep you company tonight. That he would keep you satisfied. 

And god, did he keep you satisfied.  

See, now, when Bucky came over, he left his title at the door. He stopped being Congressman Barnes the moment you had your hands on him. In the privacy of your home, away from the prying eyes of the world, he was your James. Just yours.   

And fuck, he was such a mess for you. 

You had him surrendering completely to your touch in less than a week, and he took to it beautifully. You liked him this way— on his knees as he tried to earn your approval. He never rushed, never took more than you gave him, and fuck if that wasn’t the hottest thing in the world. 

Because Bucky was powerful. He was respected. But here, he surrendered to you so easily, like he had been waiting for you to take the reins. Like he was enjoying being ruined.

But neither of you wanted to define it.  

Out loud, this was just business. It was just intel swapping. If you didn’t put a name to it, then maybe it wouldn’t matter that you supposedly ran a criminal empire and he had a seat in Congress. 

You convinced yourself it was better this way. 

But it was getting harder to ignore how much you wanted him… in ways that was more than just physical. You craved more, and it was starting to eat at you.   

And Bucky… he had his own ways of making things worse, even when his heart was in the right place.

He still bought you flowers every week. Always from Mrs. Abrams’ stall, always something different. This time, it was red roses.

“She’s going to like these,” Mrs. Abrams said as she wrapped them in brown paper. She had known you since you were young, back when you used to visit the stall with your mother. When you grew older, you always left a generous tip, and sometimes, she wondered what exactly you did for work. But you’d never tell her, and she never pried.

Bucky handed her the money and added a hefty tip of his own. 

“She has always been so independent,” she tucked the bills away. “It’s nice to see someone care for her like this.”  

“She doesn’t need taking care of,” Bucky shrugged. “She just likes flowers.”

“Still,” she handed him the bouquet, “it’s nice to see someone finally love her.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “You think I love her?”  

Mrs. Abrams looked at him like he was stupid. “Of course. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”  

That rattled him. He took the roses and left without responding, without letting himself think too hard about it.

But that was easier said than done. The entire walk to your building, he thought about it.  

By the time he reached your office, you weren’t there. Too busy with the Blackwood arms deal that was happening tomorrow.  

So instead, he left the bouquet on your desk, tucking a note into the wrapping.   

For the not-so-bloody Mary.

He didn’t know why he wrote it. Maybe he just wanted to remind you that you weren’t that to him. You weren’t a queen of the criminal underworld to him. 

You were just… you. 

And you were a good person, no matter what your enemies thought of you. 

��

The next night, Bucky stared out to the Hudson.

Daredevil stood beside him, arms crossed, listening intently to the distant sirens as they closed in.  

Thanks to the airtight intel you’ve collected for months, the two of them successfully took down the Blackwood arms deal, and there was a little less filth in the streets of New York.

In the warehouse, they left people tied in thick rope, mouths taped shut, waiting for law enforcement to collect them. 

Thanks to you, it had been a clean operation. No one died.   

“So. Bloody Mary,” Matt Murdock mentioned. “Still can’t believe she’s one of the good ones.”  

Bucky’s jaw clicked as he thought about you.  

The way you had looked at him, head tilted in pleasure.

So Bucky only let out a nervous chuckle, shaking his head as he turned away from the dock.

Because if Matt Murdock ever found out—if anyone did—it would ruin this little arrangement that you had.

—

He found you in your penthouse later that night.

You were perched at your mahogany desk, the red roses in vase next to you.

You barely acknowledged him at first, too focused on the numbers on the screen.  You were moving money around, no doubt— perhaps another private donation to a rehab clinic. 

Then, after you’ve wrapped everything up, you dismissed your men with a flick of your wrist.  

The second the door shut, you smiled at him. 

“Good boy,” you praised him. “Took them down, just like I told you to.”  

Bucky swallowed hard as heat grew in his stomach.

He wasn’t sure if it was the praise or the way you looked at him when you said it.

“What’s your plan now?” he asked, pouring you and himself a glass of whiskey before going out of your study and into the living room, plopping down on the couch. 

You could only follow, sitting next to him and sipping from the glass he poured for you. You considered his question for a while. 

“I’ll do it all over again,” you said. “Until I atone for my father’s sins.” You paused, letting out a short, humourless laugh. “Which is never.”

His chest tightened.  

You rarely talked about your father at all, at least not in any way that mattered. But Bucky had done his research. He knew of the trail of blood your father had carved through this city. And he had known you long enough to know that you were trying to be something different.  

“You’re a good person,” Bucky said, like it was the only truth in the world.  

And yet, you struggled to believe it.

A bitter, unrestrained laugh slipped past your lips. “Think again.”  

Good? What on Earth was he on about?

There was blood on your hands, enough to stain a lifetime. You had taken lives, burned bridges, walked through fire to build something better from the ashes. You were beginning to understand why your enemies called you Bloody Mary.

But Bucky still looked at you like you were sacred. He saw past the destruction, past the sins and the wreckage, straight where your heart was— in the right place.

It drove him mad that you didn’t see yourself the way he did.  

Then, Mrs. Abram’s words echoed in his head. Of course. I’ve seen the way you look at her.

She was right. He had spent months pretending this was just intel, just politics. But he wasn’t a good liar when it came to you. He couldn’t keep it inside any longer.  

“You know,” he carefully considered his words, “maybe the Blackwood kid was onto something. Mafia marriages are supposed to symbolise alliances, right?”  

You groaned, tipping your head back. Where on earth could he possibly be going with this? you thought. “You are joking,” you said, “No family in New York could possibly strengthen me.”  

“But I’m just saying…” he gulped nervously, leaning closer. Close enough for you to smell his expensive cologne. Close enough so that his heartbeat rang in your ears, too.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be another mob boss,” he murmured. His lips ghosted over your jaw, not quite touching yet just a whisper away. “Maybe… it could be a congressman.”  

Your breath hitched. What?

His next words were a confession. It was a vow.

“If you wanted a king, my queen,” he said, voice soft and steady, “all you had to do was say so.”  

Oh?

You tilted your head. “What are you trying to say, Barnes?” You asked carefully, setting down your drink. “That you love me?”  

His smile faltered. Just for a second.  

Then in a voice that held no hesitation, he said:  

“Yes.”  

Your fingers curled against the armrest so tightly you might have permanently warped the cushion. 

Holy shit.

“Oh.”  

It wasn't a surprise —not really. Deep down, you’d known. You’d known it from the way he looked at you, the way his touch lingered too long, the way the lines on his forehead softened when he was around you. 

But knowing it— hearing it— was different.  

Your heart slammed against your ribs, and you even wondered if it would ever settle down again.

Bucky had never been the kind of man to say things lightly. So when he said it—yes, he meant it.

Your fingers finally reached for him. Cupping his jaw, tilting his face toward yours, forcing him to look at you the way you knew he wanted to.  

“So loyal,” you admired his beautiful features. Your thumb brushed over his stubble, tracing the shape of his lips. “So pretty.”

Bucky swallowed hard, his lips parting, pupils dilated. His breath was rattling in his chest. Little did you know, he was fighting the urge to drop to his knees before you.  

Then, you kissed him.  

For the first time, it was sweet. It was soft.  

His reaction was instant—he’d been waiting for this. His hands found your waist, fingers digging in, dragging you closer with a desperation that made heat pool low in your stomach. 

He was solid, real. You could even feel the way his muscles twitch as if to keep himself from devouring you completely.  

But you didn’t want him restrained.

You rewarded him by sinking your teeth into his bottom lip, as if to say take what you want, James.

And fuck. He did.  

He kissed you harder. His grip on you tightened, fingers splaying over your spine, pressing into your skin as if he could pull you beneath it.  

And when you finally pulled back, Bucky was wrecked.

His chest heaved, lips were red and swollen. His hands were still locked around you, and letting go wasn’t an option.

You studied him, thumb dragging over his bottom lip, feeling the way it parted under your touch.  

God.

He was lovely. He was perfect. 

It was almost laughable— how you had been so caught up in the Blackwood arms deal, that somehow, you had missed the way he completed you.  

“Maybe not a king,” you entertained his thoughts. “Maybe… prince consort.”

Bucky blinked, his brain clearly short-circuiting. 

Before he could process, your lips brushed against his ear, your voice dipping into something sinful.  

“What do you say?” Your fingers tugging his hair slightly, earning a soft pant. “Be my prince?”

And Bucky—  The former Winter Soldier— fucking melted.

“Yes,” he whimpered. He pleaded.

You smiled wickedly, fingers threading through his hair before cradling and squishing his cheeks.

“I’ll buy you the nicest ring, sweetie,” you cooed, your voice dripping with affection as you brushed a stray lock of hair from his face.  

It wasn’t a joke. You weren’t teasing. 

No, you needed him to understand that this was not just a union of alliances.  

That this was you choosing him.

And then, you said, “Because I love you too.”  

Bucky let out a shaky breath, hands tightening around your waist. He needed to anchor himself. He couldn’t even believe this was real.

Because love?

He had forgotten what that felt like.  

Affection, yes. Lust, of course. But love was something he only observed from the outside.

Love was distant. Foreign. Love was something people like him weren’t supposed to have. He had lived more than one lifetimes and never once belonged to anything.  

Until now. Until you. 

His queen.  

And fuck—he was devoted.

To your power. To your ambition. To every wicked and holy piece of you.  

He was so utterly devoted that he would place his knife in your hand and bare his throat and trust that you would not destroy him.  

And you?  

You were going to spoil him rotten.

The finest suits. The best weapons. A fucking allowance because between the mob and a literal superhero, you were the most powerful couple this city had ever seen, and you wanted him to have everything.

You wanted to know that he was yours.  

That he was precious. 

That he was loved.  

Because Bucky Barnes was yours now.

And you had every intention of keeping it that way. 

You dragged your nails down the back of his neck, unravelling his resolve. “Look at you,” you pouted adorably, “all mine.”  

Bucky swallowed hard, but he didn’t argue. 

Your lips brushed against his, teasing, just barely touching.  

“You know what, baby?” your fingers sliding into his hair, “You would look good on your knees right about now”

He groaned, needy. 

“Say it again,” he rasped, voice wrecked.  

“Say what?”  

His hands tightened on your waist, as he dropped from the couch and sunk on the floor, peppering kisses on your thighs.

“That you love me,” he said. It was nearly a plea, nearly a demand.

“I love you, James.”  

Fuck—

“I love you, too.” 

He kissed you hard, pushing you back against back of the couch, hands grabbing, desperate, needing—

He was going to worship you tonight.  

And by morning, the entire city would know exactly who he belonged to.

-End.

If I make another one shot connected to this one where Congressman!Bucky takes mob boss!reader to a state gala for the first time, would you read it? Also, if you like this one, please send me more Bucky x Mob boss! reader. I loved writing this so much!

General Bucky Taglist :

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

@winchestert101 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault

@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

[redbloodedgurl]

If someone wants the template for the red cards I have it. We need to stick for each other. The good ones are more than the others.

We need to be strong and protect ourselves. If you can help someone out please do it. They’re not taking just immigrants, they’re taking people based on their skin color. It’s not a raid for illegals, it’s a raid to make the country white.

We live in an immigrant country!!!! Almost 90% of us have or had an immigrant in our family.

Wake up people! It’s not about criminals!!!! It’s about what white supremacist want for them. For that 2%!!!!!

to ICE: fuck off and eat curb.

to my homies: KNOW YOUR RIGHTS.

don't open the door.

ask for the warrant signed by a judge

ask for a lawyer

don't sign shit

don't answer a single question

remember: ICE comes knocking?

they need a warrant. ask them to slide it under the door. no warrant, no entry. ask for an interpreter. it's your right to understand what's going on. don't answer a single question. that whole "anything you say can and will be used against you" is true. tight lips = ICE shits. lawyer the fuck up. do some research on immigration lawyers in your city / state. and don't sign anything. nothing.

and if ICE shows up on the clock?

your employer needs to share your employment eligibility, but they don't have to say shit about your immigration status to ICE. always know your individual rights.

MAKE A PLAN. LEAN ON TRUSTED COMMUNITY. KEEP YOUR DOCUMENTS SAFE.

[redbloodedgurl]

[redbloodedgurl]

Hell yeaaaah. She had to kill him by herself without help. I mean, kind of. Ryan helped. But she was without the typical MC savior. I’m so happy 🎉🥳

Can we kill Anna now??? Hahahaha

She’s the queen now.

I still think 🪣 was a little bitch with that jealousy. He never really said sorry for being an asshole to her. Or the “friends” trying to support 🪣 not her. Still mad but i love her because she did it by herself. BAMF!!!! she no need no man.

The Eye of the Hurricane [37] - Crown

A.N: Last two chapters! ❤️I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think! ❤️

Summary: Live by the sword, die by the sword.

Word Count: 2700

Pairing: MobBoss!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Warnings: Violence, violence, I'M SERIOUS THERE IS VIOLENCE IN THIS ONE, guns, crime, blood, explicit language, dysfunctional relationship, mentions of sex. This is an AU, friendly reminder that I don’t condone any of the actions depicted on this story and please read with care.

Series Masterlist

If anything, it started out as a normal day.

“You are so pretty!” you told Alpine as you fixed the ribbon around her neck, then held up the feathery pen so that she could jump at it while you sat on the floor. “Yes you are! The prettiest princess in the entire world!”

“Charm?”

“Over here!” you called out and heard Bucky come downstairs, then he filled himself a cup of coffee before looking over his shoulder.

“You want some babe?”

“Nope,” you said, stroking Alpine’s fur. “Bucky, what are the chances that we got the prettiest and nicest cat in the entire world?”

“Zero, she’s an asshole.”

You gasped. “Hey!”

“I love her, but it doesn’t mean she’s not an asshole,” Bucky said. “She never comes when I call.”

“Because she’s a cat, not a dog,” you said. “If we have a child one day, we’re so calling them Alpine Two.”

“We’re not going to do that.”

“Alpine Two and Alpine Three.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Don’t listen to him, they’ll be Alpine Two and Three,” you told Alpine as Bucky sipped his coffee.

“Do you wanna grab lunch today?”

“I can’t,” you said. “I promised Ethan.”

He blinked a couple of times. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am not having this argument with you again when we’re in love and fucking each other’s brains out every night,” you pointed out, making him grin. “Relax with the jealousy dumbass, you already know I’m in love with you.”

He heaved a sigh, then held up his hands.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Go meet the puppy.”

“Bucky.”

“Is he not a puppy around you?”

“He’s my friend,” you said. “My friend whom I haven’t met in a while.”

“Yeah yeah…”

You scratched at Alpine’s head when she head bumped your knee while Bucky tilted his head.

“Are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been weird since we had dinner at your father’s place.”

“Sure,” you said after a beat and he raised his brows.

“Charm.”

“No I’m fine,” you said. “I’m fine, I’ve just been thinking.”

“About?”

“Business,” you said. “My father’s business, to be specific.”

He sipped his coffee. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“God no,” you said. “Of course not. I’m thinking about the consequences of it, that’s all. What it will mean for me.”

“It means the crown for you.”

You pursed your lips together. “And for Ian?”

He scoffed. “Who cares? You hate Ian.”

“Obviously I hate him,” you said. “But I’ll have to kill him, you do know that.”

“He signed his own death warrant the moment he accepted that heir position at the expense of you,” Bucky said. “I’ll kill him for you if you want.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “How fucked up is it that I find this romantic?”

“That’s because I am romantic,” he said with a smirk. “Seriously. If you want me to—”

“I’ll just cross that bridge when I come to it,” you pointed out. “I appreciate the offer though.”

Bucky checked his wristwatch, then came closer to you to kiss you on the top of your head, and scratched at Alpine’s head.

“Gotta go,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“Sure!” you said and watched him walk out of the apartment, then heaved a sigh and looked down at Alpine.

“Alright,” you said. “Come on, let’s get you some treats.”

                                             *

The café Ethan had suggested was in your father’s territory, so it was a short car drive. Seeing that the weather was slowly getting cold nowadays, it didn’t surprise you to see Ethan already inside the nearly empty café as you walked in, and waved at him before making your way to him.

“Hey!” you said and he stood up to hug you.

“Hey stranger,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

“It really has,” you said, motioning for a cup of coffee at the waitress who forced a smile, then disappeared into the kitchen. You frowned slightly, but then turned to look at Ethan when he cleared his throat.

“So what’s been up with you lately?”

“Absolute chaos,” you pointed out, making him smile. “No seriously, things are just now starting to calm down.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah there was this business thing,” you muttered. “Never mind. How about you? What have you been doing lately?”

“I’m actually…” he paused for a moment. “I’m actually moving back to my hometown.”

Your eyes widened, your jaw dropping.

“What?” you asked. “Why?”

“I don’t think New York is for me,” he said as you heard the wind bells chime by the door. “Or any big city for that matter.”

You opened your mouth to ask why, but a strange shiver went down your spine, the hair at the back of your neck rising up as his eyes went over your shoulder. You didn’t even have the time to think, your body seemed to have responded on instinct as the result of many years of training, so you kicked the table in his direction and jumped to your feet, but before you could turn around, two men had already grabbed you by the arms. You managed to kick one of them, turning around to punch the other, but another man caught your fist and turned you around, his friend punching you right on the nose so hard that you knew from the crack that he broke it before the blinding pain shot through your face. You stumbled back as two of them held you by the arms again and another one grabbed his gun, flipped it and slammed it on your head.

Then everything went black.

                                              *

You couldn’t tell which one woke you up, the cold or the burning pain starting from your nose and spreading through your whole head. Your vision was blurry when you forced yourself to open your eyes, now realizing your hands were bound and a groan left your lips as you blinked as fast as you could to see better.

Ah.

Two of Ian’s men were waiting by the door along while Ethan sat across from you, his eyes fixed on the floor. You could feel your heart dropping to your stomach but you forced yourself to focus, there had to be a way out of this—

You just needed to find it.

The room you were in appeared to be a butcher’s freezer, which made you think you were at the edge of your father’s territory. The pain in your head was so heavy that you could barely just hold your head up, let alone moving your body so you gritted your teeth, taking a deep breath through your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you heard Ethan’s voice and you turned your head to see him looking down at the gun in his lap, your hands shooting up to wipe the blood on your face before touching your forehead.

Okay, that needed stitches.

“You’re sorry?” you repeated with a dry laugh. “How long have you been working for him?”

He shook his head fervently, rubbing his thumb over the gun.

“I don’t—I didn’t—” he stammered. “He contacted me couple of months ago.”

You raised your brows. “Let me guess, he’s paying you a shit load of money?”

He shook his head again.

“He said…he said he’d kill me if I didn’t...” he muttered. “For God’s sake I never wanted this whole bullshit, I don’t even know how to use—” he pushed at the tiny button beside the gun, the magazine dropping to the floor and a couple of bullets scattering around as one of Ian’s men came closer.

“What the fuck?” he asked him, snatching the gun out of his hand and picking up the magazine before walking to the other side of the room to continue his conversation with the other man. You gritted his teeth, anger pulsing through you.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan repeated and you shook your head.

“You know you’re going to die right?” you asked him. “You’ve just signed your own death warrant by pulling this shit.”

“Civilians aren’t harmed, that’s what the truce—”

“Civilians aren’t harmed as long as they remain civilians,” you corrected him, pulling at the rope around your wrists to loosen it a little. “You’ve just thrown your hat in the ring, buddy. And trust me; if Ian doesn’t kill me, I’ll kill you and if he does manage to kill me, Bucky will hunt you down, and kill you. Torture you first probably too. So regardless of if I die or not, you definitely will Ethan.”

“I’ll move out of the city.”

“There’s no city we can’t reach.”

“That’s not true,” he argued with you. “Everyone is saying Chicago is its own city.”

A small smile curled your lips despite fear churning your stomach, a small spark of satisfaction rushing through you.

“Right,” you said. “Sure. Move to Chicago.”

He swallowed thickly, then turned his head when the door opened and Ian walked in with Ryan. Ryan stopped dead in his tracks as soon as his eyes fell on your face, but then he gritted his teeth, snapping something at the men by the door under his breath. It was impossible to hear what he had said, but judging by the way it made them step back, it couldn’t be anything nice.

“Hi there cousin,” Ian had the audacity to smile at you as Ethan stood up from his chair.

“I can go right?” he said. “You promised.”

“Sure, some of our boys will accompany you to the border of the city, then you’re on your own,” Ian said. “Thank you for this. New York will owe you.”

You clenched your jaw, glaring up at Ian as Ethan walked out of the room and Ian tut tutted.

“You just couldn’t help it, could you?” he asked you. “All you had to do was just marry Barnes and give him an heir, and then you could spend money and do nothing for the rest of your life, but you just couldn’t do it.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He rolled his eyes at you.

“Those are some big words for someone who’s about to die.”

No.

You couldn’t let panic take over your mind, you just couldn’t.

The safest option was to cling to anger.

“You don’t get to kill me and stay alive, Ian.”

“Oh I won’t be the one who killed you,” he said. “Your ex-boyfriend did. Everyone saw him meet you at that café after all.”

“And you think my dad will buy that bullshit?”

“I’ll make him buy it.”

“You think Bucky will buy that?” you spat and he shrugged his shoulders.

“No, he will come after me,” Ian said. “And that’ll start a war. Too bad.”

You gritted your teeth. “You don’t have the means to survive a war, dickhead.”

“You have no reason to worry about that,” Ian said. “You’re not walking out of here alive after all.”

You licked your lips, the metallic taste of blood reaching your throat as Ian nodded at his men.

“Untie her.”

One of his men came to cut the rope around your wrist and helped you up while the other one pointed his gun at you just in case. The whole room was spinning around you, your heart beating in your throat but you tried to fix your breathing.

It was fine.

It was going to be fine.

“Ryan, my gun,” Ian ordered and Ryan stared at you, then pulled out the gun from his waistband, quickly taking out the magazine to check the bullets before sliding it in again.

“Leave us,” Ian said and Ryan licked his lips, stealing a look at you before he walked outside with the rest of Ian’s men following him. He slammed the heavy door behind them and you clenched your fists, still glaring at Ian.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Ian said, pointing the gun at your face. “I did, numerous times. Get on your knees.”

“No,” you said. “If you’re going to kill me, you’re going to kill me standing.”

Ian took a deep breath, then swallowed thickly.

“As you wish,” he said and raised the gun a little to aim for your forehead, the fear making your eyes burn but you quickly blinked the tears back, forcing yourself to focus on—

Bucky.

It was strange, how it worked. Everyone talked about how this business was dangerous, but no one talked about what one would think when there was a gun about to blow their head off.

There was fear yes, but the memory of happiness shed a small ray of sunlight on it. Knowing Bucky would stop at nothing to take your revenge almost soothed the pain of knowing you would never see him again, at least—

At least in this life.

But you knew you loved him. He knew you loved him.

That was enough, somehow. Even with a gun pointing at your head.

“Live by the sword, die by the sword,” Ian recited. “Goodbye, cousin.”

You closed your eyes, holding your breath and bracing yourself for the deafening gunshot but the only thing that echoed through the room was the empty click, making your eyes snap open while Ian gawked at the gun in his hand, fear flashing over his face as he froze.

…Ryan.

Ryan had taken out the bullets.

The adrenaline that roared through you was powerful enough to overcome the fog in your brain or the pain on your face as you lunged at him to knock the gun out of his hand, slamming him back to the heavy door, the unmistakable sound of gunshots echoing outside. Ian shoved you back as hard as he could and tried to swing a punch at you but you quickly dodged it, elbowing him on the nose.

“Welcome to your cage fight, Ian,” you spat as he wiped at his nose.

“You dumb bitch…” he muttered, then swung at you again but you quickly stepped back, grabbed his wrist and turned it with all your strength until you heard the pop, and his yell of pain. He kicked you on the knee hard, making you scream out of pain as you stumbled back, and he tried to grab at you with his other hand but you had already punch him right in the neck, making him gasp and fall on his knees, clutching at his neck.

“You know,” you said, breathing hard as you grabbed the gun off the floor and picked up one of the bullets Ethan had dropped earlier. “I should thank you for this. I was having second thoughts earlier, but now…”

He was still gasping for air as you slid the magazine out, put the bullet inside and slid it back again, making him drag himself back on his palms until his back hit the wall.

“Exile me,” he managed to say, and you tilted your head. “Exile me somewhere else.”

You shook your head, adrenaline making your head spin.

“You know how this shit goes,” you said through clenched teeth. “You tried to kill me. Exiling you isn’t enough.”  

“I’ll forfeit the title!” he said, still breathless and you shook your head again, then pointed the gun at him with a sigh.

“I'm sorry Ian,” you said. “Live by the sword, die by the sword.”

With that, you pulled the trigger and heard the loud bang before the blood splattered over your face, making you grimace as his body slipped on the floor. You wiped at your face, then slammed open the door to point the gun at whoever was outside, but the only thing you could see was Ian’s men bleeding on the ground while Ryan stood by the door, his back straight as if he was waiting for your order.

“Ma’am,” he said with his hands clasped behind him, and he bowed his head a little as you smiled at him.

“Thank you,” you rasped out, raising your head to stare up at the dark sky before turning to him. “Ryan, is there any chance you’re looking for a new job?”

The corners of his mouth twitched and he nodded.

“Working for your father’s heir would be an honor, ma’am,” he said softly and you let out a small laugh.

“Good,” you said as you limped to the car parked right outside the back alley with Ryan following you. “You’re hired.”

[redbloodedgurl]

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo fuuuuuckiiiiiinnnngggg fuckityyyyyy waaaaaaaaayyyyy!!!!!!! Hahahaha omg I hate you!!!! (Not really) but you let me vent about how much I hated 🪣 I went on and on

And you didn’t tell me anything��and now he’s “in love” bs I don’t buy it. Not yet hahahahaa I need a grand love gesture because if I don’t have one that means I’m the bitch not him hahahaha

The Eye of the Hurricane [35] - Confessions

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback, you made my day! ❤️I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think! ❤️

Summary: A nightclub can be a good place for confessions.

Word Count: 2400

Pairing: MobBoss!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Warnings: Violence, guns, crime, blood, explicit language, dysfunctional relationship, mentions of sex. This is an AU, friendly reminder that I don’t condone any of the actions depicted on this story and please read with care.

Series Masterlist

You knew Bucky was trying to stay out of your way, you just knew.

Since you had first gotten married, he had never spent the night outside until tonight. When you woke up, the spot next to you was empty, so you huffed out a breath and went to the bathroom to take a shower. After that, you made your way downstairs to feed Alpine but the noise by the door made you turn your head.

Bucky hadn’t seen you just yet -he probably thought you were still asleep- and he made his way upstairs while you tilted your head, crossing your arms but keeping completely quiet in the kitchen. Even if you wanted to go upstairs after him, he didn’t take long, probably just changed his clothes and came back downstairs, stopping in his tracks when he saw you.

“Hey,” you said and he offered you a small smile.

“Hey,” he said, already making his way to the door with you following suit. “I have a meeting, I’ll see you tonight at the—”

“Bucky,” you said, your heartbeat speeding up and he froze by the door, then cleared his throat and turned to you.

“Hm?”

“Can we talk?”

“No.”

You pulled your brows together. “What? The fuck does that mean, no?”

He bit inside his cheek, averting his gaze from you.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said. “You heard what I said, so—”

“So what, we just don’t talk about it?”

Bucky paused for a moment, then nodded his head.

“Yeah,” he said. “That sounds like a good plan.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“Charm, I have this meeting—”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“It doesn’t change anything, okay?” he said. “What was I supposed to say? I was an ass to you because I took all my anger at my father and projected it onto you?”

“George never said anything to me,” you mused. “Neither did my father.”

“I doubt he mentioned it to him,” he said. “I mean…at least not until you came back from college.”

“But before that, only to you?”

Bucky pursed his lips together, still unable to look you in the eye and nodded.

“That was still an asshole move,” you pointed out and he sucked in a breath through his teeth, then nodded his head again.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck before his eyes found yours. “I’m sorry Charm. I really am, I was a dick. I never should’ve—that whole bullshit was between my father and me, you didn’t deserve to be caught in the crossfire. I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me for it, but I’ll try to…make it up to you. I’ll make sure you get that crown.”

You crossed your arms, pursing your lips and Bucky swallowed thickly, then cleared his throat.

“I’m just gonna—” he motioned at the door. “Uh, see you tonight at the club.”

With that, he walked out of the apartment and you leaned your back to the wall with a groan, pressing your palms on your eyes.

 “The club,” you muttered to yourself. “Right. Great.”

                                               *

The whole reason why you were going to the club was because of Rhett. He had mentioned wanting to go out and Clint’s brand-new club sounded perfect for the occasion, and you figured once everyone drank a little, making the deal would be much easier.

“Please tell me it’s a good club,” Rhett said as you both got your coffees and sat down to your table. The café you had picked was right across your father’s skyscraper, your surname shining against it and you heaved a sigh, then leaned back.

“One simple listener would think you don’t trust me, Rhett.”

“I flew here because I trust you,” Rhett reminded you. “Your taste in clubs however…”

“We met at a club, dumbass.”

“I’m still not convinced it was a club of your choosing, but your friends’,” Rhett pointed out, making you scrunch up your nose at him, then lightly kicked his shoe.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“What does the rest of Chicago think about you doing business with New York?”

Rhett heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his curls, his rings catching your attention for a moment.

“They don’t necessarily love the idea.”

“None of them?”

“Most of them,” Rhett said. “My father thinks it’s a terrible idea.”

“Ah.”

“Caleb—you met Caleb, he also thinks it’s a bad idea.”

“Caleb is a dick.”

“And Alice and her family as well,” he said and scoffed. “But that one has more to do with you than the business.”

“Did you tell her I’m married to Bucky?”

He hummed. “She knows,” he said. “Still thinks…”

“That you and I are going to sleep together?”

Rhett shot you a small grin. “Yep.”

“I’m not the cheating type.”

“Never thought otherwise,” he said. “One does wonder though…”

You sipped your coffee. “Wonder what?”

“If we broke up for no reason.”

You lowered your coffee cup to give him a reprimanding look.

“There was a reason,” you said. “Business.”

“You don’t think we could’ve made it work?”

“Nope,” you said. “I’m not the type to play the housewife, you know that.”

“I never asked you to do that.”

“But that’s how Chicago works,” you said with a laugh. “And I would never be a mistress either so…”

He opened his mouth to retort but before he could, someone cleared their throat behind you, making both you and Rhett turn your heads and you rolled your eyes when you saw Ian.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you asked and he shrugged his shoulders.

“I just left your father in his office,” he said. “You’re not gonna go and say hi?”

“Nope, I’m busy with my guest,” you said and motioned between them. “Ian, Rhett. Rhett, this is Ian, my cousin.”

“And her father’s heir,” Ian corrected you, extending his hand and Rhett raised his brows, eyeing his hand before looking up at him with a quizzical glare. You bit back your smile and nodded at Ryan by the door before turning to Ian who lowered his hand.

“Why is an heir who’s not even a firstborn talking to me?” Rhett asked you, completely ignoring Ian and you shrugged, smirking.

“No idea. Ian?”

“I speak for my uncle.”

“I’m not talking to your uncle either, buddy,” Rhett said with a snort. “We’re in the middle of a conversation and you’re interrupting us.”

A look of surprise crossed Ian’s features before he threw his shoulders back.

“Mr. Davis, if we’re going to do business, it is important that you respect me, if my uncle hears—”

“Oh we seem to have some miscommunication here,” Rhett said. “I’m not doing business with you, or your uncle. Go tell your uncle the only person who I’ll speak to in terms of business is his daughter, and that I don’t appreciate being put in a situation where I have to talk to a second-choice heir who doesn’t even deserve a title that moves through family.”

You pursed your lips together to hold back your laughter as Ian gritted his teeth.

“I’m his nephew.”

“Not his firstborn,” Rhett stated. “Not even his spare. Back in Chicago heirs have to prove their worth, and nothing I heard about you is worth anything, Ian. So why don’t you go back to your kids table and leave the grownups to have actual conversation about business? Because unlike you, your cousin here knows what she’s talking about.”

Ian looked like he was considering saying something and Rhett tilted his head, smirking as if daring him. Ian lingered there for a moment before throwing you a glare, then scoffed.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said and stormed out of the café while you let out a giggle.

“Aw,” you mocked him. “I think you hurt your feelings.”

“Someone had to, you guys are being too soft on heirs here,” Rhett pointed out, making you laugh. “Anyway, we were saying?”

                                                 *

Clint really did have a good taste in clubs.

A couple of years earlier, you would be dancing on the dancefloor and drinking to your heart’s desire. Your father’s notorious name always worked in your favor in the city, and clubs weren’t an exception to that. With a wave of your hand, your bodyguards, -or Bucky’s, Steve’s or Sam’s- would be dragging anyone who bothered you or Becca outside, but now that you came to the clubs only to make deals, you didn’t dance or drink too much.

Rhett seemed to be in a good mood along with everyone else as he laughed at something Steve said, then sipped his whiskey while Bucky had his arm thrown over the back of the sofa you both were sitting on, and as much as you wanted to keep your conversation from earlier going, you knew you couldn’t in front of Rhett.

“So yeah he turns to me and says, ‘Chicago will not like this’ and I’m like, ‘Motherfucker I am Chicago!’” Rhett said, letting out a laugh. “Apparently this guy he was working with, he didn’t even tell him my name, just sent him there.”

“No way.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Which wasn’t even the first time someone within my father’s ranks tried to kill me.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Even family, once.”

“How did you get out of that?”

Rhett smiled and nodded in your direction. “You’re looking at my guardian angel there.”

Bucky raised his brows. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s a long story,” you said. “And I barely did anything.”

“No no, she had the opportunity to actually cross me after she dumped me,” Rhett said. “But she didn’t.”

“Yeah well…” you said, leaning your head to Bucky’s shoulder. “I just don’t like traitors.”

“No, loyalty is—” Rhett motioned at you. “Her loyalty is something else. So you might be the luckiest man I’ve ever met, Barnes.”

You let out a laugh while Sam tilted his head and Steve stole a look at Bucky whose jaw clenched.

“Oh he knows,” you said, squeezing Bucky’s arm. “I remind him in case he forgets.”

Bucky hummed, pressing a kiss on top of your head, nuzzling into your hair and making your heart skip a happy beat even if you knew it was for show.

“And you don’t have to look so tense man,” Rhett said with a grin. “She rejected me earlier, so…”

Your eyes widened as you looked from him to Bucky whose glare turned sharp.

“I have no problem starting a war between Chicago and New York, Rhett,” he said. “Careful now.”

Rhett scoffed a laugh. “Or what?”

“Alright, before anyone says anything they might regret,” you stopped Bucky before he could retort and stood up, tugging Bucky by the hand. “Buck, a word?”

Bucky looked like he would say no, but you led him out of the VIP room to the nearest bathroom, nodding at the girls inside.

“Out,” you said and they scurried out of the bathroom before you slammed the door behind you and turned to Bucky.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Trying really hard not to shoot your ex,” Bucky retorted. “How about you?”

“Bucky…” you said, running a hand over your face. “We are not starting a war between Chicago and New York just because you’re feeling a bit territorial—”

“A bit territorial?” he repeated. “A bit territorial? Charm, the whole reason why that asshole can still talk is because you told me not to shoot him, but if he keeps pushing his luck—”

“That’s a joke!”

“I told you though, didn’t I?” he insisted. “I told you he’s here to…fucking steal you away.”

“The fuck am I, a loaf of bread?” you snapped at him. “This is not Les Mis, no one is stealing me away, do you hear yourself?”

“Do you?” he asked. “What did he mean, you rejecting him earlier?”

You looked up at the ceiling, reminding yourself to be calm.

“He was talking about when we used to date,” you said. “And I said we couldn’t have made it work anyway, that’s it. That’s what he means.”

“But he still hopes for it.”

“We’re married, Buck,” you reminded him, “It may be because of the business, but I’m sure you remember our deal—”

“Yeah, for you maybe.”

You pulled your brows together. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Bucky.”

“It’s business for you, Charm,” Bucky spat. “Which is fine, but don’t stand there and assume that it’s the same for me, okay? You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Your frown deepened.

“You married me for business,” you said. “So that I could get to the top, so that Ian wouldn’t break the truce, so that—”

“That’s what you think, huh?” Bucky asked, a dry laugh climbing up his throat and your heartbeat sped up as you stared at him.

“Then why?” you asked back and Bucky licked his lips.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Bucky I’ve had it up here playing this fucked up game with you,” you said, your voice low. “What, you’re pretending to be jealous of Rhett—”

“Pretending?”

“Yeah and you’re bluffing to start a war over some pissing contest—”

“I’m not bluffing.”

“You’ve been avoiding me since we left the therapist’s office—”

“Charm.”

“And I want us to talk but you keep running away from whatever nonsense—”

“I’m in love with you.”

The simple sentence managed to make you stop talking, your eyes snapping up to his as you gawked at him, your mouth half open.

“I married you because I’m in love with you,” he said. “I’m willing to start a war with Chicago, with New York, with your own father, because I’m in love with you.”

Bucky loved you.

He was in love with you.

The happy disbelief pinned you to your spot while the music echoed in the bathroom, and he let out a dry laugh.

“There,” he said. “Now you can reject me and we can just—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence when you snapped out of the haze and turned around to lock the door, then made your way to him to pull him into a kiss, a pleasant warmth spreading from your chest to your whole body. He wrapped his arm around your waist to pull you closer, and you let out a giggle when he pulled back a little to look at you.

“You’re…you’re not rejecting me?”

“Bucky,” you said, grinning wide. “You can be such an idiot sometimes.”

With that, you stood on your tiptoes to kiss him again, a squeal leaving your lips as he lifted you and carried you to the bathroom vanity.

[redbloodedgurl]

Oooh mmmyyyy goooooood 🥺 I can’t. I hate 🪣 I hate him. How dare he? And Natasha??? And people ask me why I hate her so much. Such a bitch. Playing wingman for an engaged coward pitiful tiny dick energy man. Ugh.

Bastards!!! I want blood. 🪣 and that bitch blood!!! 😈😈

And then he has the audacity to say that he was his “true self” with reader but he keeps cheating and being his awful self.

I hope Dot’s son isn’t his and she divorce him and left him without anything. On the streets.

And I hope reader and this other girl live happily ever after with a man that can appreciate them like they deserve.

We don’t tolerate cheaters in this household

PS. Amazing one shot. I hate you but I love you too hahahaha thank you for sharing 🥰

Angeleyes. 

~ gif not mine credit to owner ~

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: Y/n sings Angeleyes in front of her ex boyfriend and his new girl.

Word count: 2,010

Warnings: mentions of cheating, singer!reader (warning?) sexual innuendos. Bucky is…well he’s just gross in this.

Masterlist

“Are you ready Y/n/n?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be”

Swallowing her nerves she stepped on to the stage, the bright lights nearly blinding her, her heart beating rapidly all disappeared when the music vibrated through her whole body, as always when she was on a stage she came alive.

keep thinking 'bout his angel eyes

keep thinking, ah-ah

The girl under his arm smiled hugely at him when the lyrics filled the room. He smiled back before placing a soft kiss to her lips which had the girl blushing.

Last night, I was taking a walk along the river, And I saw him together with a young girl

And the look that he gave her made me shiver, 'Cause he always used to look at me that way

His heart stopped. He knew that voice.

Whipping his head from the girl to the stage he started to shift in his seat. He knew the singer standing on the stage like she belonged there, like she was put on to this earth to perform.

He remembers the first time he heard her sing, she was in the shower putting on a performance of a life time to the shampoo and conditioner bottles. When he asked her to sing to him she blushed violently before agreeing, she was so shy when she wasn’t singing but the moment she did she gained everyone’s attention.

Some nights after a pacticular nightmare he would ask her to sing something for him, she would always pick something from his era.

Then I thought maybe I should walk right up to her and say

"Ah-ha-ha, it's a game he likes to play"

She was a friend of Nat’s who had introduced the team to her, her and Bucky hit off straight away.

“Do you want to play a game?” Bucky asked once they were alone in the tower.

“What kind of game?”

“Truth or dare”

“Okay”

The game started off pretty innocent until Bucky dared her to kiss him. So she did.

The kiss ended up with them naked, panting for breath in his bed.

A few weeks later Bucky asked her out and she said yes.

Look into his angel eyes. One look and you're hypnotised

“Buck has anyone ever told you that your eyes are perfect?” Y/n asked one day as they were lying in bed together.

“No, do you think they are?”

“It’s like you’ve got angel eyes”

“Angel eyes?”

“Yep! Oh and they are so hypnotic”

Bucky barked out a laugh, he had always been told that his eyes were nice but this…this was new.

“Hypnotic? Baby can my eyes hypnotise you?”

“Maybe, no definitely can” she answered.

“Let’s put this to the test shall we?”

Neither one left the room for that whole day.

He'll take your heart and you must pay the price. Look into his angel eyes

That’s all she did, she gave and gave whilst he just took everything not once giving her the same or even a slither of what she gave him.

She gave him her heart, her soul, her body on a silver platter and he took it. The moment he was done he took the silver platter and smashed it on the ground letting it break into tiny little pieces, stomping on it just to finish the job.

He did it all whilst looking at her with those bright baby blue eyes, the ones that reminded her of an angel, no harm could be done not when he had those angel eyes.

What a lie.

You'll think you're in paradise

And one day you'll find out he wears a disguise

She was on cloud nine, her landlord had rang her earlier that day to say that he was getting maintenance out to fix the pipe under her sink that had been playing up for weeks. She had gotten the promotion at work, the one that she had worked so hard for.

Bucky had told her to come to the tower after work, said that he planning something special for them both. He always did that, always planning things for them he was the first boyfriend she ever had that always made time for her, always made her feel like she worth more than life had to offer, always one step ahead of the game.

He made her feel safe, secure and loved.

Until she walked happily into the tower and saw him with a brunette lips locked together.

Don't look too deep into those angel eyes. Oh no, no, no, no

“Jamie who is this?” the brunette asked looking at Y/n.

“A friend”

“Oh it’s so nice to meet you I’m Dolores but you can call me Dot, I’m Jamie’s fiancée”

Y/n looked at the woman’s left hand and sure enough there was a silver band with a huge rock sitting on her finger, her teary eyes met his angel eyes her heart breaking even more when she saw no remorse. She had no choice but to shake the woman’s hand.

Making up a lie to the woman who accepted it Y/n rushed out of the room to the elevator, looking back to see Bucky’s eyes trained on her.

(Ah-ha-ha, ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha) (Ah-ha-ha, ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha)

(Ah-ha-ha) I keep thinking 'bout his angel eyes I keep thinking, ah-ah)

She was the other woman. She was the other woman and none of his friends told her, Nat hadn’t even told her and she knew. Nat knew Y/n was in love with a man who was engaged to someone else and she didn’t even tell her.

That night she curled up on the couch tears streaming heavily down her cheeks, the thought of sleeping in the bed that held the memories of them sweaty and naked in her bed and that was just that morning, made her feel physically sick.

Sometimes when I'm lonely, I sit and think about him. And it hurts to remember all the good times. When I thought I could never live without him

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.

Like a fool that’s all she thought about. She thought about a man who had used her, made her into something she always swore she would never be, the man who took her heart in the palm of his hand a squeezed until there was hardly anything left to squeeze out.

He didn’t try once to reach out to her to try and explain or to try and make out that this Dot lady was a crazy woman who was just making things up, even though she knew it would have been a lie she kept expecting him to show up at her door and tell her that.

Was she a bad person? Should she have told Dot that her fiancé was a cheater? Would the woman believe her? Would it even make a difference?

He made her feel loved, she was in love with him whole heartedly and all she was to him was some dumb naive play thing whilst his fiancée was probably planning their wedding. There was never a dull moment between her and Bucky, their year together was full of passion, love, laughter. The memories he left her with were good, happy and now they were tainted.

He took a year of her life and the whole time she meant nothing to him when he was her world. Her mom always did say that when she loved she loved hard, and it was true.

Stupidly she thought she was going to spend the rest of her life with him.

And I wonder, does it have to be the same. Every time when I see him, will it bring back all the pain?

She had managed to avoid him out on the streets or stores until one fateful night when she had gone to the store after work to pick some more ice cream up, as she walked down the aisles her music blaring through her headphones she caught a glimpse of him laughing with Steve. Neither one noticed her.

Her heart ached at the sight of him. It had been over six months since she last saw him and every single thing she tried so hard to forget came rushing back. Dropping the basket she was carrying on the ground she rushed out of the store.

Not knowing that Bucky had seen her fleeing away from him.

Ah-ha-ha, how can I forget that name?

If it wasn’t in her memories his name haunted it was online.

‘James Barnes and Dolores Roberts tie the knot in beautiful ceremony’ the headlines read, in the photos they stood there with huge smiles on their faces.

‘James Barnes injured on a mission in Russia’ the urge to phone and check up on him had her throwing her phone across the room.

‘James and Dolores Barnes expecting first baby together’

‘James Barnes’

‘James Barnes’

‘James Barnes’

Though the world didn’t know about her they didn’t let her forget his name.

Look into his angel eyes. One look and you're hypnotized

His eyes haunted her dreams. The worst part of it all was that they still brought her peace and safety.

He'll take your heart and you must pay the price. Look into his angel eyes, You'll think you're in paradise. Then one day you'll find out he wears a disguise. Don't look too deep into those angel eyes. Crazy 'bout his angel eyes. Angel eyes

He took my heart and now I pay the price

He sat there and watched as she owned the stage, he took each word she heavenly sang in. The guilt eating more and more away at him for the way things went between them, he was so caught up in the moment of being able to get away with cheating on his then fiancée now wife that he didn’t think about the damage he was causing anyone else.

At least not his Y/n.

Look into his angel eyes

He loved the way she called him Angeleyes, at first it was something silly she would say to wind him up but then it became a name that every time she called it him she had his full attention, he even stopped answering to Bucky when it came from her.

You'll think you're in paradise

Bucky had no idea how his straying away from Dot began, he doesn’t even remember the first woman’s name or how she looked. Meeting Y/n was the best thing to ever happen to him, being with her was definitely like being in paradise. She wasn’t just another woman he cheated on his fiancée with, no she had his heart.

Then one day you'll find out he wears a disguise. Don't look too deep into those angel eyes. Oh no, no, no, no

He never wore a disguise…he was always himself with her. Well apart from telling her that he was engaged to another woman.

keep thinking. Keep thinking 'bout his angel eyes (ah-ha-ha)

Keep thinking (ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha). Keep thinking, had to pay the price (ah-ah, ah-ah-ah)

Keep thinking (ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha) Keep thinking 'bout his angel eyes (ah-ah-ah). Keep thinking (ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha)

As the song came to an end everyone in the place stood and cheered, the girl under his arm that was most definitely not his wife as she was at home looking after their three year old and nine week old baby, stood up clapping along with the rest not knowing that the song she had been dancing along to was about the man she was on her third date with, nor did she know that he was married with two children. The cheering slowly came to a stop, Bucky watched as his Y/n climbed down the three steps off the stage and jumped into a man’s arms.

His Angeleyes filling with tears when he saw the man take her face into his hands and placed his lips to hers.

His heart breaking when he caught the light reflecting off a ring, a ring that sat on her left hand.

Keep thinking, I had to pay the price (ah-ah, ah-ah-ah). Keep thinking (ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha)

Tags: @imcinnamoons | @pigeonmama | @capsbestgirl77

[redbloodedgurl]

Hiii. I'm here once again looking for a series. This time it is a modern!bucky x reader/ Steve x reader.

No powers. They're both soldiers. Or just bucky, and he gets deployed, so he leaves, and obviously, he leaves Steve to take care of her wife, I don't remember if she was already pregnant. I think she was. So Bucket 🪣 is kidnapped by the mean old guys and everyone think is dead so they move on, ofc our sweet reader doesn't move on so easily is hard for her but everything with Steve just flows naturally they do the dirty deed and start falling in love with each other. Steve proposes? Or they were already engaged just insisting in putting a date 📅 and *insert suspense music* Bucket returns!!

So ofc everything goes to shit. Steve keeps insisting on getting married. BUCKET just wants to keep his marriage alive. She feels confused because she loves both of them so (much to my desperate self) she avoids them because pretending nothing happens is the best way to go ofc lol

They put their men pants 👖 and talk (Steve and 🪣) and obviously stay both of them with our reader. They have another kid (I think she was already pregnant when 🪣 returns)

So yeah. That's the series hahaha

Hopefully you know what I'm talking about.

Have a great Friday guys!!!! Weekend yay 🙌

[redbloodedgurl]

I always read and reread your smutty stuff because yeah you have a horny gift from the gods.

But I a.ways skip this fic and OMG. Idk how but you manage to Tuen something fluffy in something hot 🥵 gurrrlll I’m 🫠 hahahaha

She was so mesmerized, he could have asked her to sign her life and she would have done it in a heartbeat.

If sometime in the future you do a part 2. I’m here for it. Like Cardi said: where’s my pen, @#tch I’m signing 🤭

Thank you for sharing 🥰💕

I need Bucky to speak Russian now! Like imagine him greeting you saying Привет дорогой (hello sweetheart) it would be so hot 🥵. and him calling me a good girl oh Jesus I would die right there. Honestly like Bucky Barnes can f*ck me right now. He could hit me with a bus and I wouldn’t care. Also make sure to eat and drink water😊😊😊

okay first of all yes i agree but secondly i kinda wanna write a drabble about that now???

fuck it here we go

I Am So Sorry. I Just Hit You With A Bus 🚌 Bucky x Reader

Okay, there's a huge alien threat to Earth. Sure, everyone's life is in danger, including, like, innocent little kids and shit. Fine, all of the action has to take place in New York fuckin' City because the aliens apparently have an affinity for rats and Broadway.

But a bus? Really?

"Oh, my God, are you okay?" A deep voice calls out to you the second your blurry vision begins to clear.

"What the fu- flying goddamn fuck happened?" You ask with a slight slur, sitting up on the hard concrete.

"Fuck," The voice sounds closer, and you see the outline of a big man standing over you. "I am so sorry. I just hit you with a bus."

"Yeah, I know that, asshole," You groan, rubbing the back of your head. "Why would you do that?"

"It was an accident!" He replies, his face slowly becoming more visible. "I needed to get those people to safety, but the evil alien warlord Pozz was close behind, and I wasn't looking where I was going and I assumed the road was clear..."

While he explains what happened, you can't help but be taken by his beauty. The way his lips move around his words is magical, and his eyes are like gorgeous pools of blue crystal that you want to jump into.

"You alright there?" He asks once he realizes you've zoned out. When he sees you focusing again, he gives you a polite smile. "Hi. I'm Bucky Barnes, Avenger. I just hurt you while in action, but I didn't mean to, and- fuck, I've forgotten the protocol for these situations. Uh, if you are injured, we will pay for any, uh, doctor stuff you need. And, as a treat, you get to meet your favorite Avenger!"

Still in a daze, you reach out to cup his face and stroke his stubble. "Winter Soldier," You whisper dreamily.

He lets out a nervous laugh. "Uh, just Bucky is fine."

A small smile blooms on your lips as you continue to stroke his beard. "I think I love you."

Laughing again, Bucky raises a brow. "So you're not gonna try and sue the Avengers or anything, right?"

"Of course not," You reply obediently. "I'll be good for you, Sir."

Something flashes in his eyes, and he looks around the empty street before moving closer to you. "Yeah? Gonna be good for me?"

"Always," You promise with wide eyes.

He smirks, leaning over you. "Khoroshaya devushka (good girl)."

Your breath hitches in your throat and you forget the pain that's shooting through you. "O-okay."

Bucky moves your hair out of your face, mischief blossoming in his eyes. "Ty ochen' krasivaya (you're very pretty)," He mumbles, more so talking aloud to himself than to you. "Interesno, kakoy u tebya vkus (I wonder what you taste like)."

You're hypnotized by his silky tongue and gruff voice, and you think you'd let him hit you with a bus whenever he wanted if it meant he'd keep talking to you in Russian.

"Does anything hurt?" He asks with slight concern, looking down at where you lie on the ground.

Moving your shoulders, you wince. "My back. But it's okay; I have a chiropractor friend who can fix me up."

He sighs with relief, thankful that he won't get in trouble for harming citizens again. Slowly, he helps you sit up, holding your hands.

You bring your lips to his ear, your tone light and naughty. "I'm going to tell him that the Winter Soldier broke my back," You whisper, to which he snorts.

"You can tell him whatever you want, dorogoy (sweetheart)," Bucky tells you, before his voice lowers and his eyebrows furrow. "But you're not telling anyone about the bus. Got it?"

You nod immediately, though it slightly hurts your spine when you do. "Yes, Sir, Mr. Winter Soldier, Sir. I won't tell anyone."

He grins before standing up and pointing down at you. "I knew you were a good girl."

A weak whimper leaves your mouth and you stare up at him as though he hung every star in the sky himself.

"Goodbye, dorogoy," Bucky greets, slowly walking away. "Bud' khoroshey devochkoy, poka menya net (be a good girl for me while I'm gone)."

[redbloodedgurl]

Maybe we are. I already love you for not blocking me for saying what I’m thinking about reader and Bucky 🤭

I mean I think it’s a compliment (ofc doing it respectfully) to be so mad with a fic that you can’t stand someone hahaha like you write so good that you’re transmitting all this feelings. I hate Bucky. Does that will make me stop reading? No! I’m a masochist lol does that will make me stop commenting or rebloggin that I want herb happy without him? Also no hahaha

Thank you for sharing your works!!! You are AMAZING, you make me mad but you’re amazing 🥰

the manuscript | chapter eleven

Summary: It seems Dr. Barnes is having a hard time without Miss Spector's attention.

Warnings: Age Gap. (Dr Barnes: late 40s & Reader: early 20s). Infidelity. Explicit Sexual Content. Rough Sex. Emotion Distress. Alcohol Use. Power Dynamics.

Word Count: 1664

Spotify Playlist | Pinterest Board | Support: Ko-Fi

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: I couldn't wait for them any longer. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

The Manuscript: @mostlymarvelgirl | @mrsnikstan | @angelbabyyy99 | @kaithesimps-blog | @julvrs | @mrsstuckyboo | @am-3-thyst | @mcira

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment

Each hour dragged by with an agonizing slowness as the weekend stretched out before James. He sat in his home office, fingers drumming on the desk as he glanced down at his phone for what felt like the hundredth time– no new messages, no calls, no emails. With a deep sigh, a knot of worry tightened in his chest. 

His mind was clouded by thoughts of you, from the moment, he left Marc’s apartment last night. The way you looked at him with such vulnerability, your troubled expression etched across your features. He hoped you would reach out to him today, even if it was just a brief message to let him know you were okay. Yet, he was deafened by your silence. 

He sent a couple of texts, simple and unobtrusive, but you sent no reply. He tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail. He feared drawing unwanted attention if someone else saw the messages causing him to hold off on bombarding you. Sharon hadn’t noticed his distracted state, and even if she did, she would brush off any concern and carry on with her day. 

James stayed home most of Saturday and Sunday, pacing his office and running through scenarios in his mind. Should he drive by the apartment, the frat house? Or, call your brother and check in under some pretense? He was aware he had to be careful. Any overt action could arouse suspicion and lead to questions neither of you was prepared to answer.

The scene from Friday night replayed in his mind. The look in your eyes, the way you trembled with confession. He wanted to comfort you and make things right, but he was powerless in your silence. 

His frustration began bubbling over by Sunday evening. How could you just disappear without a word? He ran a hand through his hair, he tried to shake off the anger and focus on what he would do when he saw you again. Didn’t you realize how much you meant to him? How much he was worried about you?

~

As Monday morning came, James sat at his desk early, staring at the door and waiting. A glass of whiskey nursed in his hand as every tick of the clock intensified his emotions. His mind raced with worry and anger, he was furious with you for making him worry, the emotional turmoil you caused him. 

Just then, a little over 9 AM, you strolled into his office as if nothing had happened. Carrying two takeout cups of coffee, and a beautiful bright smile on your face. “Good morning, James,” you said cheerfully, setting the cups on his desk. “I brought you your favorite.”

James looked up at you, relief and concern flashed over his expression. A loud scrape against the floor rang through the room as he stood abruptly, slamming his glass down on the desk. “Do you have any idea what you put me through this weekend?” he demanded, his voice low but laced with a genuine worry.

You blinked, taken back by his reaction. “I… I just needed some time,” you stammered, your smile faltering. “I thought it would be best to–” 

“To just vanish without a word?” he interrupted, his eyes flashing with anger. “To leave me hanging, not knowing if you were okay?” 

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” you said, your voice began to raise in defense. “I just needed to sort out my feelings.” 

“How does the smartest woman in this god-damn building, not think?!” James snapped, his frustration boiling over. “You never think about how your actions affect others!” 

“That’s not fair!” you shot back, your anger beginning to flare. “You paraded Sharon around in my home, but you can’t handle seeing me in a hallway with Peter?” 

His eyes narrowed. “This is different,” he hissed. “Sharon doesn’t mean anything. It’s a facade, and you know that.” 

“A facade that cuts me into pieces every time I think about it,” you retorted in a hard whisper. “You expect me to just accept it, while you lose your mind over Peter?” 

“It’s not the same,” he insisted, his voice low and intense as he stepped closer. “You agreed to this, knowing what it would be like.” 

“And you agreed to care about my feelings,” you whispered furiously. “But, it seems like you only care when it’s convenient for you, Dr. Barnes.” 

The tension between you crackled like white noise. And, without another word, you turned on your heel and started for the door. Your coffee cup is long forgotten. Before you could reach for the handle, James grabbed your arm, pulling you back. The sudden movement brought you face-to-face, inches apart, your breaths mingling. 

“It aches me not knowing the taste of your lips,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. He reached up, his hand enveloping your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. 

Your heart pounded in your chest. “Then, why don’t you find out?” you urged, your voice betraying both your longing and defiance. 

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze locking with yours. His voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke again. “What if I can’t stop myself?”  

You breathed out, your voice tinged with desire and vulnerability. Challenging him to cross the threshold between you. “What if I don’t want you to stop?”  

With your faces mere inches apart in that charged moment, James couldn’t resist the pull any longer. His heart thundered in his chest, his lips crashed down on yours with a hunger as he closed the gap between you.

Stunned, the intensity of his kiss sent a shockwave through you. But then, without hesitation, you responded. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. 

A fire ignited as the kiss deepened. James pulled you closer and his hands slid down your back, pouring all the pent-up emotions into this singular act of desperation.

His lips moved against yours, an urgency that matched the rapid beating of your heart. You tried to savor the sensation of each other’s lips, the taste of whiskey, the heat that threatened to consume you both. 

“I’m sorry,” James murmured hoarsely against your lips. “I shouldn’t have–”

“Don’t apologize,” you whispered against his mouth, interrupting him.

In one swift motion, he lifted you, and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. He moved with purpose as he pushed you up against the wall of his office. His body pinned yours in place. The pressure against your back made you gasp, the sound being swallowed by James’ fervent kiss.

His hands roamed, one sliding up to cradle your throat, the other gripping your thigh, holding you securely against him. 

His eyes burned into yours with intensity. “I need you, Baby Girl,” his voice a low growl. 

“Then take me,” you breathed out, your voice trembling with desire.  

A fierce hunger took over him, tearing at your clothes, his movements were rough and urgent. And soon, you were bare against him, with his hand everywhere exploring, and claiming as if he needed to memorize every inch of you. 

You fumbled with his belt, your hands trembling in between you. You felt the heat of him against you when you finally freed him. He paused for a moment, his eyes locking with yours, seeking permission and assurance. 

You nodded with a silent plea in your eyes. “Please, Sergeant,” you whispered. 

With a guttural growl, he entered you in one swift, powerful thrust. You gasped with the suddenness, your body arching against his. He set a demanding pace, each thrust rough and deep, pushing you closer to the edge with every movement.

You clung to him, your nails leaving marks as your fingers dug into his shoulders. Pain mingled with the pleasure, intensifying the sensations coursing through you.

“Don’t stop,” you begged him, your voice raw with desperation.

“I won’t,” he growled, his voice shaking. 

He brought his hand up to your mouth, silencing your moans as he thrust deeper and harder into you. His eyes stayed locked onto yours. The room filled with the sounds of your passion, each thrust, each gasp, each moan bringing you closer. 

His other hand gripped onto your hip bruisingly, fingering digging into your flesh as he pounded into you. “You feel so fucking good,” he snarled, breath hot against your ear. 

Your muffled cries only spurred him on, and your every nerve ending, alit with sensations as the roughness of his touch sent shockwaves of pleasure. Your body arched against the wall as the rough texture pressed against your skin. 

With a final, powerful thrust, he sent you over the edge. Your body began to convulse against his, the pleasure causing you to cry out his name against his hand. Moments later, he followed with his release echoing in the confines of his office. 

For a moment, he stood there, keeping your bodies entwined as you came down from the heights of your passion. His hands lingered on your skin as he gently set you down. His eyes filled with satisfaction, and a lingering hint of concern as he looked at you.

“Are you okay, Baby?” he softly asked, his voice a tender contrast compared to the roughness of moments before.

A small smile played on your lips as you nodded. “Better than okay,” you replied, your voice still breathless. 

His lips pressed a soft kiss to your forehead as he pulled you into a gentle embrace. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he murmured. 

“You didn’t,” you reassured him, your fingers tracing gentle patterns against his chest. “I wanted this. I wanted you.” 

His grip tightened around you, and he sighed. “This is going to change everything.” 

“I know,” you whispered, burying your face in his chest. “But, maybe that’s okay.” 

The future of your relationships was uncertain. The road ahead is fraught with complications. Yet, in those moments, with his arms around you, you thought anything was possible.

---

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[redbloodedgurl]

He has the audacity to be mad??? Ha fucking ha. I can’t believe it.ugh. I hope reader open her eyes and run away from that man that is only playing with her feelings. How can she be so whipped?? They had like 3 hours overall of interactions.

I’m so frustrated.

Yeah. She has a boyfriend. But it’s not a husband. And the other one is an asshole too. So I guess she’s the one that needs some therapy or something so she can value herself. I love her but damn, she’s pissing me off 🤭

Getting mad about fictional characters is my guilty pleasure 🤡

Thank you for sharing🥰, hopefully you can give the reader some dignity pleeeaaaaseeeee 😫😩 there's always the same type of readers, letting men doing what they want with them, using them as a doormat for "love"

the manuscript | chapter eleven

Summary: It seems Dr. Barnes is having a hard time without Miss Spector's attention.

Warnings: Age Gap. (Dr Barnes: late 40s & Reader: early 20s). Infidelity. Explicit Sexual Content. Rough Sex. Emotion Distress. Alcohol Use. Power Dynamics.

Word Count: 1664

Spotify Playlist | Pinterest Board | Support: Ko-Fi

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: I couldn't wait for them any longer. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

The Manuscript: @mostlymarvelgirl | @mrsnikstan | @angelbabyyy99 | @kaithesimps-blog | @julvrs | @mrsstuckyboo | @am-3-thyst | @mcira

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment

Each hour dragged by with an agonizing slowness as the weekend stretched out before James. He sat in his home office, fingers drumming on the desk as he glanced down at his phone for what felt like the hundredth time– no new messages, no calls, no emails. With a deep sigh, a knot of worry tightened in his chest. 

His mind was clouded by thoughts of you, from the moment, he left Marc’s apartment last night. The way you looked at him with such vulnerability, your troubled expression etched across your features. He hoped you would reach out to him today, even if it was just a brief message to let him know you were okay. Yet, he was deafened by your silence. 

He sent a couple of texts, simple and unobtrusive, but you sent no reply. He tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail. He feared drawing unwanted attention if someone else saw the messages causing him to hold off on bombarding you. Sharon hadn’t noticed his distracted state, and even if she did, she would brush off any concern and carry on with her day. 

James stayed home most of Saturday and Sunday, pacing his office and running through scenarios in his mind. Should he drive by the apartment, the frat house? Or, call your brother and check in under some pretense? He was aware he had to be careful. Any overt action could arouse suspicion and lead to questions neither of you was prepared to answer.

The scene from Friday night replayed in his mind. The look in your eyes, the way you trembled with confession. He wanted to comfort you and make things right, but he was powerless in your silence. 

His frustration began bubbling over by Sunday evening. How could you just disappear without a word? He ran a hand through his hair, he tried to shake off the anger and focus on what he would do when he saw you again. Didn’t you realize how much you meant to him? How much he was worried about you?

~

As Monday morning came, James sat at his desk early, staring at the door and waiting. A glass of whiskey nursed in his hand as every tick of the clock intensified his emotions. His mind raced with worry and anger, he was furious with you for making him worry, the emotional turmoil you caused him. 

Just then, a little over 9 AM, you strolled into his office as if nothing had happened. Carrying two takeout cups of coffee, and a beautiful bright smile on your face. “Good morning, James,” you said cheerfully, setting the cups on his desk. “I brought you your favorite.”

James looked up at you, relief and concern flashed over his expression. A loud scrape against the floor rang through the room as he stood abruptly, slamming his glass down on the desk. “Do you have any idea what you put me through this weekend?” he demanded, his voice low but laced with a genuine worry.

You blinked, taken back by his reaction. “I… I just needed some time,” you stammered, your smile faltering. “I thought it would be best to–” 

“To just vanish without a word?” he interrupted, his eyes flashing with anger. “To leave me hanging, not knowing if you were okay?” 

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” you said, your voice began to raise in defense. “I just needed to sort out my feelings.” 

“How does the smartest woman in this god-damn building, not think?!” James snapped, his frustration boiling over. “You never think about how your actions affect others!” 

“That’s not fair!” you shot back, your anger beginning to flare. “You paraded Sharon around in my home, but you can’t handle seeing me in a hallway with Peter?” 

His eyes narrowed. “This is different,” he hissed. “Sharon doesn’t mean anything. It’s a facade, and you know that.” 

“A facade that cuts me into pieces every time I think about it,” you retorted in a hard whisper. “You expect me to just accept it, while you lose your mind over Peter?” 

“It’s not the same,” he insisted, his voice low and intense as he stepped closer. “You agreed to this, knowing what it would be like.” 

“And you agreed to care about my feelings,” you whispered furiously. “But, it seems like you only care when it’s convenient for you, Dr. Barnes.” 

The tension between you crackled like white noise. And, without another word, you turned on your heel and started for the door. Your coffee cup is long forgotten. Before you could reach for the handle, James grabbed your arm, pulling you back. The sudden movement brought you face-to-face, inches apart, your breaths mingling. 

“It aches me not knowing the taste of your lips,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. He reached up, his hand enveloping your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. 

Your heart pounded in your chest. “Then, why don’t you find out?” you urged, your voice betraying both your longing and defiance. 

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze locking with yours. His voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke again. “What if I can’t stop myself?”  

You breathed out, your voice tinged with desire and vulnerability. Challenging him to cross the threshold between you. “What if I don’t want you to stop?”  

With your faces mere inches apart in that charged moment, James couldn’t resist the pull any longer. His heart thundered in his chest, his lips crashed down on yours with a hunger as he closed the gap between you.

Stunned, the intensity of his kiss sent a shockwave through you. But then, without hesitation, you responded. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. 

A fire ignited as the kiss deepened. James pulled you closer and his hands slid down your back, pouring all the pent-up emotions into this singular act of desperation.

His lips moved against yours, an urgency that matched the rapid beating of your heart. You tried to savor the sensation of each other’s lips, the taste of whiskey, the heat that threatened to consume you both. 

“I’m sorry,” James murmured hoarsely against your lips. “I shouldn’t have–”

“Don’t apologize,” you whispered against his mouth, interrupting him.

In one swift motion, he lifted you, and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. He moved with purpose as he pushed you up against the wall of his office. His body pinned yours in place. The pressure against your back made you gasp, the sound being swallowed by James’ fervent kiss.

His hands roamed, one sliding up to cradle your throat, the other gripping your thigh, holding you securely against him. 

His eyes burned into yours with intensity. “I need you, Baby Girl,” his voice a low growl. 

“Then take me,” you breathed out, your voice trembling with desire.  

A fierce hunger took over him, tearing at your clothes, his movements were rough and urgent. And soon, you were bare against him, with his hand everywhere exploring, and claiming as if he needed to memorize every inch of you. 

You fumbled with his belt, your hands trembling in between you. You felt the heat of him against you when you finally freed him. He paused for a moment, his eyes locking with yours, seeking permission and assurance. 

You nodded with a silent plea in your eyes. “Please, Sergeant,” you whispered. 

With a guttural growl, he entered you in one swift, powerful thrust. You gasped with the suddenness, your body arching against his. He set a demanding pace, each thrust rough and deep, pushing you closer to the edge with every movement.

You clung to him, your nails leaving marks as your fingers dug into his shoulders. Pain mingled with the pleasure, intensifying the sensations coursing through you.

“Don’t stop,” you begged him, your voice raw with desperation.

“I won’t,” he growled, his voice shaking. 

He brought his hand up to your mouth, silencing your moans as he thrust deeper and harder into you. His eyes stayed locked onto yours. The room filled with the sounds of your passion, each thrust, each gasp, each moan bringing you closer. 

His other hand gripped onto your hip bruisingly, fingering digging into your flesh as he pounded into you. “You feel so fucking good,” he snarled, breath hot against your ear. 

Your muffled cries only spurred him on, and your every nerve ending, alit with sensations as the roughness of his touch sent shockwaves of pleasure. Your body arched against the wall as the rough texture pressed against your skin. 

With a final, powerful thrust, he sent you over the edge. Your body began to convulse against his, the pleasure causing you to cry out his name against his hand. Moments later, he followed with his release echoing in the confines of his office. 

For a moment, he stood there, keeping your bodies entwined as you came down from the heights of your passion. His hands lingered on your skin as he gently set you down. His eyes filled with satisfaction, and a lingering hint of concern as he looked at you.

“Are you okay, Baby?” he softly asked, his voice a tender contrast compared to the roughness of moments before.

A small smile played on your lips as you nodded. “Better than okay,” you replied, your voice still breathless. 

His lips pressed a soft kiss to your forehead as he pulled you into a gentle embrace. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he murmured. 

“You didn’t,” you reassured him, your fingers tracing gentle patterns against his chest. “I wanted this. I wanted you.” 

His grip tightened around you, and he sighed. “This is going to change everything.” 

“I know,” you whispered, burying your face in his chest. “But, maybe that’s okay.” 

The future of your relationships was uncertain. The road ahead is fraught with complications. Yet, in those moments, with his arms around you, you thought anything was possible.

---

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[redbloodedgurl]

Omg. I was looking for this like a crazy person. Now I can die in peace hahahha thank you @mrs-barnes-rogers-writes for the help 💕👏🏼

Loved it. The ending not so much. I’m not into Bucky/Steve as a pair. But idc. I like everything else so so much. It’s a masterpiece.

Thank you so much for sharing 💕

Shared desires

✦ Pairing: Bucky/Fem!Reader, Steve/Fem!Reader, brief Bucky/Steve

✦ Word count: ~4,4k

✦ Rating: Explicit

✦ Warnings/tags: Canon verse, Wife!Reader, Husband!Bucky, Best friend!Steve, cuckolding, degradation, praise, oral (fem receiving), spit sharing, manhandling, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, angst, hurt/comfort, feels, eventual polyamory, pet names (doll, honey).

✦ Note: NERVOUS! I've never written for an event before, but it gave me the push I needed to finally finish this! For @the-slumberparty's Sundae Bar we have Chocolate (a secret revealed) together with Neopolitan (love triangle). Topped with Chocolate Syrup (established relationship) and one could argue a dash of Sprinkles (special event)(it sure is special for them 😂) As always, reblogs, comments, and asks are very welcome ❤️ Enjoy 😋

Masterlist | AO3

Steve’s mouth is hanging slightly open, cheeks red, and eyes wide. "Excuse me?" he sputters. "You're the only one I trust with this, if you don't feel comfortable I get it, but I thought I’d ask.” "But Buck…" Steve begins, momentarily lost for words, then says, "I don't want to cause a rift between you and your wife." "You wouldn't, we've talked it over so many times and honestly you're the only one she's okay with." "Me?" Bucky reaches over to place a hand on Steve's knee, squeezing it reassuringly. "You've been at our side since the beginning, she knows you, and knows you would never hurt us."

Then he leans back with a smirk. "And don't think I didn't see you looking at her last time we went out drinking." Steve flushes even more, looking away, mumbling, "Those pants should be illegal." Bucky laughs in response.

With a sigh, Steve looks at his best friend, his long lost brother, the person he went through hell to get back. If Bucky knew the truth he wouldn't be laughing. For a second Steve contemplates telling him but as he's done for years, he keeps his deepest secret inside and instead says. "Just let me think about it, okay? It doesn't mean it's a no but just… I need to think, okay?" "Take your time," Bucky reassures him.

***

Several hours later you're ordering take-out while waiting for Bucky to get home from the compound. You could cook but your body is jittery with nervous energy and it's hard to concentrate. Bucky asked Steve today and you have yet to learn how it went. Your husband could have texted you, but Bucky often forgets that texting exists.

When the key turns in the lock you can't keep your cool any longer. Running into the hallway just as Bucky kicks off his shoes you don't even pretend to be nonchalant about it. "Well?" you ask.

With a chuckle, Bucky envelopes you in a hug. To be in his arms is the best feeling in the world. Surrounded by his scent and his warmth, knowing you're safe and cared for. "He's going to think about it, didn't say no. He was just shocked." Pulling back you squeeze Bucky's waist. "I understand that. I was too when you first brought it up," you note.

Bucky starts backing you out of the hallway until your back meets a wall. "But now you can't stop thinking about it," his deep voice taunts, making you light up with desire. "Now you want to get fucked while I watch and get humiliated.” The sound coming from your throat makes it impossible for you to deny it.

***

A few weeks later, you’re sitting beside Bucky, across from Steve in your living room. The guys have beers and you have a glass of wine. Steve's cheeks have been pink since he stepped through the door and looked at you. "I understand if you think it's a little… odd," you say to him. "And even if you say yes now, you can always change your mind later."

Steve nods and takes a swing from the bottle. He's not going to get drunk but it eases the nerves. "So, I'll fuck you while Bucky watches?" "Yeah," you nod. Steve puts the bottle down, dragging a hand over his face. "God, I'm going to be honest, I'm scared it's going to fuck up our friendship Buck. What if we do this and it's not what you imagined?" Bucky nods, but his answer is sure when he responds. "Then we'll stop. And there are no hard feelings. The same goes for you, even if we're right in the middle of it and it starts to feel wrong, just say the word and it stops right away."

Steve doesn’t look convinced. Honestly, you're just glad he wanted to come over and discuss it. A little idea forms in your head. You put down the wine. "How about a trial run?" you suggest. Both men turn to look at you but you only keep your attention on Steve. "If you're okay with it, I'll sit on your lap. If that feels alright we can share a kiss while Bucky watches and if it feels wrong it doesn't have to go any further."

Steve thinks for a moment, then agrees. A small groan comes from Bucky, just the thought of it makes him aroused. You kiss him on the cheek before standing up and slowly walking over to Steve. His eyes follow your every move but he doesn’t look scared.

When you straddle him, his hands immediately come to rest on your hips but then it's as if he realizes what he's done and stiffens. "It's okay," you encourage him. "You can touch me." He relaxes minimally and you settle down completely. "You can stop anytime," you remind him as you cup his bearded face. His tongue comes out and wets his plush lips, nodding.

You let your thumbs run along his cheeks, never breaking eye contact and the moment feels so intimate. You’re unsure what to expect, but your pulse picks up as he becomes more confident, moving his hands up and down your sides. A finger slips in under your sweater and brushes your skin. It sends a shiver down your spine and a pleased whimper comes out of your throat. That seems to encourage him and the light touches turn heavier.

Carefully you lean forward, giving Steve time to stop or to pull away. The hesitation on his face from earlier has fled and instead, you see a spark of eagerness. Pressing your lips softly against his, it takes a second for him to return it.

Turns out Steve Rogers is a great kisser. After sliding your lips together he quickly turns bolder, opening your mouth with his and finding your tongue to play with. His touches get greedier too. When both his hands shift in under your sweater to feel your naked skin you whimper again, longing for more of it. Without noticing you’ve started moving, seeking friction for the throbbing between your legs.

"Oh, fuck yes," you hear Bucky grunt behind you. That makes Steve break the kiss, you meet his wild eyes, pupils blown wide from lust.

"Your husband is getting off on you grinding in my lap, honey." You’ve never heard his voice so deep before. "He has his hand inside his pants, stroking his pathetic little dick while you do your best to hump me.” "Fuckfuckfuck," you hear from Bucky. With a whine you press down hard, feeling that Steve is just as affected as you. With difficulty, you stop yourself from going to the floor and beg to suck his dick. Instead, the both of you continue with the heated make-out session, your hands now heavy on Steve’s body, wishing you had his skin against yours.

The sounds coming from Bucky on the couch grow more urgent and it turns you on to know he's getting off to you making out with Steve. It feels wrong and so right at the same time. Steve nips your lower lip before kissing down your neck, saying, "I can't wait to fuck that sweet cunt of yours." Both you and Bucky moan. "Gonna give you a night you've never had before and make sure every time your husband fucks you all you can think about is my dick."

That makes Bucky lose it, a small shout declaring his climax. Steve and you slow down the tempo of your kissing until it's just soft, barely there caresses. Though the need is alight in your body, coherent thoughts start to tumble back in and after a few minutes, you pull back from him. His lips are swollen, and you feel a tinge of reproach for getting carried away with him. Cupping his face once more you ask, "How are you feeling?" He gives a dry laugh, "It's a mix of shame and horniness."

When you frown he grabs your hands to remove them from his face, squeezing them before letting go. "It's alright, it felt good while it was happening,” he reassures you, before asking over your shoulder. “How about you Buck?" "That's the hardest I've ever come from jerking off in my life I think." Both Steve and you laugh as you collapse against his chest. Immediately he starts caressing your back. You get a familiar feeling in your chest, one you usually only get when Bucky holds you.

"How about you, doll?" Bucky asks. "I liked knowing I was doing something to get you off at the same time as it was kind of "wrong"." A moment later you get off Steve, and sit down on the couch beside Bucky again. Somehow it feels weird to be away from him but you chalk it up to the sexual desire still prominent in your body.

“How about another meeting in a week or so? Get everyone to think it through another round and then we can decide on a date and location?” Bucky suggests. You nod and Steve does too.

***

On a Friday, after numerous more talks to plan the evening and all of you getting your STD tests back clean, it's finally time. The excitement is palpable in the hotel room you decide to stay in.

At Steve and Bucky’s request, you're wearing a very tight dress and the smallest pieces of underwear known to man.

Steve is sitting at the foot of the bed, white shirt tucked into black slacks like he's heading out to dinner, not about to fuck his best friend's wife. Bucky is in jeans and one of his henleys, placing an armchair at the side of the bed.

Even though you know what is about to happen, you feel nervous, but also excited to fulfill your husband's kink. When you take your place in front of Steve, meeting his hungry eyes, there is a buzz in your body making you bite your lip.

"Ready?" Bucky asks and you both nod. The moment Bucky sits down you climb onto Steve's lap. The smooth material of his slacks caresses your inner thighs as you settle. Immediately his hands land at your waists and starts stroking your sides, down to your ass, squeezing and pressing you just a little bit closer. Those blue eyes are a storm, filled with lust and need. Your face probably mirrors his and a second later your lips are pressed together.

Both of you moan and Steve fists the fabric of the dress, threatening to tear it to shreds. A soft groan is heard, and both of you smile into the kiss. Steve pulls away, making you pout, but he tsks at you. "Just be happy that I'm the one kissing you and not the shitty husband you have.”

Something in you wants to defend Bucky because he's not a shitty husband. He's amazing in every way! But you know that this is what he wants, it's part of the game. Bucky gets off on Steve's degradation. You can't deny him that.

Then he's kissing you again, heavier than earlier. Your hands grab his head, messing up the semi-styled hair, anchoring you to him. On their own accord, your hips roll against Steve's crotch, pulling moans from the both of you.

A second later he has you flipped onto your back, smiling down deviously as you stare at him in shock. But when he presses his clothed cock to your soaked panties the shock is forgotten. Pleasure engulfs every sense of your being.

"There you go honey, let me take care of you, let me make you feel better than your husband ever could." With a whine you jerk against him, trying to find relief for the ache in your cunt, but instead, he pulls away, taking your panties with him. Without looking he throws them Bucky's way and another groan comes from him when he feels how wet they are. Steve gets off the bed and starts unbuttoning his shirt. "Show your husband, honey. Show him how fucking wet you are for me."

With a whimper, you spread your legs. The air feels cool against your heated flesh. You don't dare to look at Bucky but understand he sees what Steve wants him to when a broken moan can be heard through the room.

"Touch yourself," Steve commands, and with shaking fingers you find your entrance, letting one sink it into yourself, wondering if you've ever been this wet before.

Slowly you move it, all while watching Steve get undressed. He's in no hurry. With a thick voice, he says, "One more, but don't you dare come."

With stuttered breath push another finger in. The sound that fills the room is obscene but leaves no doubt about how horny you are. When Steve is down to his underwear he pulls the fingers from you, sucking them into his mouth, groaning at the taste. After licking them clean he releases them with a pop and smirks at you. Then he turns to Bucky and it's the first time you get a good look at him.

His hands are gripping the arms of the chair in a death grip, you're surprised his vibranium hand hasn't done more damage. He's taken off his henley and his cock is out, hard and leaking onto his abdomen. Glassy eyes follow Steve's movements. The blond grabs Bucky's face, forcing his mouth open and tilting his head back. Immediately Bucky sticks out his tongue and from above Steve lets his spit run down into Bucky's mouth.

Bucky's dick twitches and leaks more. "That's the only fucking taste you'll have of your wife tonight. Say thank you." Steve rumbles. As soon as Bucky has swallowed down the mix of your slick and Steve's spit he says "Thank you," in a voice hoarser than you've ever heard before.

Steve comes back to you, pulling your dress off and stepping out of his underwear before settling on the bed and pressing your legs up against your stomach. "Now I'm going to get a proper taste of that sweet cunt," he grins.

"Steve!" you cry and your hands immediately find his hair as he dives in. His tongue travels from your opening to your clit, over and over again, soaking you in his spit until you feel it running down your ass. He sucks and licks, alternating pressure, and speed to make sure you're never quite getting enough to make you come but to keep you constantly on edge. The moment he sinks two fingers into you, you arch off the bed and a high-pitched wail leaves your mouth.

You're at the brink of shattering. The current of the climax is cursing through your body. Incoherent babbling fills the room as you try to urge Steve to take pity on you. Luckily for you, he does and concentrates the movements of his tongue to your clit, as his fingers press against your G-spot. A surge of heat fills your core, making it almost unbearable before it takes you and you come with a shout.

Steve works you through it until you're twitching from oversensitivity, pressing on his forehead to get him to stop. "Almost pushed my fingers right out with that," he muses, twisting them, pumping slowly. "Bet your husband has never made you come so hard."

A groan from Bucky accompanies your whimper. "Now tell me what you need honey." "I need you inside me!" "But my fingers are already inside," Steve makes a point by pressing the two fingers inside against your G-spot, making you lose your train of thought for a second.

"I- I mean…" you try. "Yes?" "More, I need more." "Just say the words." "I need your cock inside me, Steve, please!"

Seconds after his fingers have left you, he flips you onto your stomach, then puts you on your hands and knees right at the edge of the bed, at an angle where Bucky can see you. You're trembling with anticipation of what's coming.

Steve caresses your ass and legs, lightly dragging his fingers over your swollen clit and soaked center. "I can't believe this pretty fucking cunt is wasted on your husband." "Please, Steve!" "I bet you're never this wet for him" "No!" "You want me to fuck your sweet cunt, honey?" "Yes!" "Make it drip with my cum?" "Please!" "Should I knock you up, right here in front of your husband?" "Fuck me! Please!" As you feel the warm head against your cunt your arms collapse, your cheek resting against the bed.

"I love it when you beg for me," his strained voice is deep as he pushes inside. Moans, whimpers, and wails fall from your lips once he starts moving. He's big, just like Bucky, and you love to feel so full. You push back as he thrusts forward, the sound of skin against skin filling the room.

Suddenly there is a hand on your neck, making you turn your head until you see Bucky at the edge of your vision. "Tell your husband how my cock feels!" Steve demands. "Ah! Bucky! It feels so good!"

Bucky is still not touching his cock, his mouth is slightly open, his whole face red as he watches you. "Yeah, doll, you like it?" "I do! I do!" "Is he big?" "Yes! I feel so full!" That makes Steve laugh. "All she wants is a big dick and all she got was you," Steve tells Bucky.

Bucky is about to burst with those words and the armchair creeks in his grip. Then Steve turns your head again so you can't see him anymore. Instead, you're focused on how he's fucking you rough and deep. "You're gripping me so tight honey, it's like you don't want to let me go." You answer with a strangled moan. "Yeah, you're too full of cock to talk, just be a good little wife and take what I give you."

And you do, body going almost boneless as Steve fucks you. Carefully another orgasm starts to build in your lower stomach, and soon it has you wiggling and whining, needing release.

Steve's hand finds your aching clit. "That's it," he groans. "I need you to come on my cock before I fill you up with my cum. Make sure you tell your husband whose dick it is you're coming on, honey. I want it seared into his mind. Every time he fucks you from now on all he's going to remember is how loud you screamed my name." Nodding helplessly you do as he says and as the dam breaks and pleasure rushes through you, you wail Steve's name.

A moment later the telltale sign of Steve's orgasm floods you and he groans your name. For a moment his hips are plastered to you, keeping everything inside. Then he pulls out and the cum runs down your legs. When he lets go of your hips you don't have the strength to keep yourself up anymore. Falling to the side you watch Steve walk over to Bucky, pulling him up and pushing him towards you. "Go fuck my cum back into your wife."

Bucky all but scrambles over to you, ridding himself of his pants in the process before carefully turning you over onto your back and sinking into you. You wrap your arms and legs around him, your lips finding his in a familiar dance.

"I won't last, doll," he confesses. "Don't need you to," you promise with a smile. A second later Bucky’s hips stutter, his orgasm causing him to cry out against your shoulder. It lasts longer than usual and brings a wide smile to your lips, knowing Bucky's fantasy is fulfilled.

When he's done he collapses on top of you, his weight heavy but welcoming, making you feel safe and loved. A moment later you look over at the armchair, expecting to find Steve, but he’s not there. His clothes are gone too and then you hear the door to the hotel room shut.

***

The anxiety in Bucky's chest grows for every dial tone that sounds and Steve doesn't pick up. The whole weekend he’s tried to get a hold of him but he hasn't answered his phone or been seen at the compound. Bucky sent hundreds of texts, all being delivered but none replied to. There is a hole in his chest where his best friend used to live and it feels like he's getting a glimpse into how it was for Steve to find him and lose him over and over again.

Bucky wanders into the exhibition, eyes searching for Steve. This is the last place on his list of where he could be. After this, he's out of ideas. Then Steve might as well have gone to outer space and Bucky shudders at the thought of searching aimlessly through the galaxies for him. But he would do it.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he spots a familiar back. As Bucky steps up beside him, Steve’s shoulders go stiff. "You left," Bucky states. "I know," Steve responds, looking down.

"Why? We agreed to talk afterward to make sure everyone was feeling okay. It's called aftercare for a reason." "I don't know, just seeing the two of you. You love each other so much." "We do. But we love you too."

Steve huffs at that and Bucky's eyebrows draw together. "Am I going to have to beat it out of you, punk?" "Maybe this conversation is better somewhere else," Steve suggests, glancing around. "How about we go to our place? She's worried sick about you." Steve nods and together they leave the museum.

***

You’re going to wear a hole into the floor with your endless pacing. Over and over again you replay the moments after hearing the door shut. The look on Bucky’s face. The scramble to find clothes and run after Steve. Not finding him anywhere. Both of you frantically calling him over and over again.

Then you hear Bucky's truck. And a motorcycle. Your bare feet start running before you know it and you fling the door open to see Steve get off his bike. A heartbeat later you're running across the lawn. He sees you and he’s confused, but when you jump into his arms he catches you without hesitation.

You want to scream and beat him but instead, you cling to him. Bucky says something but you can't hear it and then you feel Steve start heading towards the house.

"Doll, you have to let go," Bucky's soft voice says as Steve sits on the couch. In response, you shake your head like a petulant child. "Yes, you do, come on," It's a little sterner now. "Honey, I'm not disappearing again. I promise." Only then do you slide to the side so you're sitting next to Steve, Bucky on the other side of him.

"We're very sorry we got you into this Steve," Bucky begins right away. "It was supposed to be a fun night for all of us." Finding Steve’s hand you squeeze it to let him know you agree with what Bucky's saying. "We never wanted to hurt you," you whisper.

There is a long beat of silence and you're about to speak again but Steve says, "It's my fault that I wasn't honest with the two of you." His eyes are downcast and he brings your hand into his lap, then grabs Bucky's too. "I should have said something earlier but I was scared."

"Of what Stevie?" you ask softly. "We want you to be happy, you can tell us anything." Steve snorts, weaving all your fingers together. "Scared to tell my best friend and his lovely wife that I care for them more than I should. That when I can't sleep, I wish I could feel their warm bodies beside me. That every time I see them kiss, smile, and be utterly happy together I'm both jealous and delighted. I want the two of you to have a good life. But I also want to be a part of that life, more than just as a friend."

The confession knocks the air from your lungs and you share a look with Bucky. He speaks first. "Steve, I had no idea." "That's kind of the point." "And when I suggested that you join us…" Bucky trails off. "I saw it as the only opportunity to be with the two of you, even if it was just for one night." "And when we were done…" You try to think of it from Steve's perspective. "The way you love each other is so evident. I'll never be able to fit into that. Everything just felt wrong and that I was an intruder. So I left. I know I shouldn't have but I was so disgusted with myself I couldn't stand it."

"Oh Stevie," you lean into his side. Never in a million years could you have predicted this. "I understand if you're feeling like you never want to see me again and I’m truly sorry I hurt you.”

"Hey, Steve, listen." Bucky untangles your hands to grip Steve's face and turn it towards him. "We have talked about a lot of things throughout our marriage. We both agree that even if we're not actively looking for someone else, if someone would come along one day that we both feel would complete us, then we would pursue that person and ask if that's something they're interested in. Apparently, we've both been blind because that person has been right in front of us this whole time."

As soon as Bucky says the words you know they are true. If this weekend has proved anything it is that you and Bucky love Steve just as much as you love each other.

The look on Steve's face says he doesn't believe it. "You've already kissed my wife. Can I kiss you, Steve?"

The disbelief is still evident but he nods and Bucky slowly leans in. Steve's eyelids flutter shut the moment their lips meet and you watch as your husband and his best friend find something new in each other. Steve's free hand comes up and grips Bucky's neck, at the same time and he squeezes your hand. Their kiss is slow and sensual, containing emotions that have been locked away for years. It's beautiful to watch.

As they break apart a blush rises in Steve's cheeks and a smile cracks his face. Bucky grins back at him in answer. Everything isn't solved or worked out but now the ground under you feels more stable to stand on and you know that together with these two men there is nothing the world can't throw at you that you won't be able to handle.

[redbloodedgurl]

Guys, I need your help. I was reading this wonderful smutty piece. Bucky and his wife had a cuckold kink and ask for Steve to fuck her infront of Bucky. He’s hesitant at first but then they made out one day and it’s so hot so they arrange a meeting for the next week to do the deed.

And I had to adult in that exact moment and lost it 😫😫😫

If you know it let me know please. Thank you!!!!

[redbloodedgurl]

Cannes Film Festival is over!!! My heart is happy 🥰 the movie that I loathed didn’t even get recognized 👏🏼 and this masterpiece won 3 awards. Important ones may I add. Can’t wait to see this movie, not only for the cast, because I’m Mexican so I can judge hahaha and I will.

Best Actress

Best Soundtrack

Jury Prize

[redbloodedgurl]

9-10 min standing ovation!!! That’s my girlll she looks so happy and healthy.

[redbloodedgurl]

This kept getting better and better every paragraph that I read hahahaha

First a sweet reader. Miss Bambi?! Hahahaa Fawn!!!!

Then single dad Bucky (I took my time to understood that, just because I’m tired and there was a lot of interaction there hahaha)

And the one night stand….him deleting his account and the cherry on fucking top Jen……she’s pregnant???? Jesus Christ!!!!!

I’m scared ngl because I didn’t hate anyone and that ex could be dangerous.

My heart can’t take the stress rn hahahaa but oh well. I’ll be ready for the heartbreak

See Through My Eyes, Part 1

Summary: You had reached the point of your life in the last thirty-six years that you were just going to be alone. You were content. Living your happy life with no rules for anyone but yourself. And there was Bucky. And one night. And that was all it took to have your world turned upside down, and it will never be the same again.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes X Reader

Rating: mature

Warnings:  language, implied sex, slight sexy imagery, I'm a cocktease (get over it 🤭), 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 5K

Series Masterlist

Left. Left. Hmm.

This is not going to be an easy task. You’re definitely not picky, you just know what you want, and what you don’t want. What you’re willing to compromise, and some things that you most definitely would never even think twice about compromising on. Being single for so long, you have grown to be independent and didn’t actually need anyone in your life. If they were going to be with you, they would have to add to your experience.

Left. Nope. Never. Not in a million years.

Your friend, Zoey’s mouth drops open as your finger continues to swipe left. Left. Left. Throwing her head back in exasperation as you keep flicking left over and over again, and never in the direction she was ready to beg you to flick. Such a fruitless endeavor she’s making you endure. Pointless. These men were — well they weren’t anyone you would go after.

Countless faces that do nothing to excite you. There was absolutely no physical attraction whatsoever. Looks aren’t everything, but you have to be able to look at them. Imagine having that face hovering over you. Sputtering stupid words they think are a turn on, while you just start moaning so they get the fuck off you, and you are left to finish yourself off. Left with hardly any relief, but filled with humiliating shame for the rest of your life. No, thank you.

Oh that one looks smug. Nope.

This one looks high as a kite. Can’t do that.

“Are you even reading their bios?” Ehh, you were skimming them, and that’s if you find something about them you like. You know that Zoey thinks you’re just being a prude or an ass that is there for her humor. But if you were going to do this, why not make it enjoyable? At least walk away with a story to tell that didn’t want to make you hurl.

“A bit,” you hum. “Gross, this one is saying he’s going to give me a good time. How cringe is that?”

Zoey’s eyes narrow, and her lips purse as she stares at you. She’s already annoyed with your antics, and her constant want for you to have what she had. And you are okay with being alone. “What?” You ask her overly dramatic but judging face that you love, but still want to pinch her.

“You’re the one that’s cringe. How do you know?”

“Of all the dating sites you wanted me to use, you chose Tinder. Now, maybe I’m wrong but isn’t this a hookup site?” She just shrugs her shoulders while you continue to swipe left. “How do you want me to have sex with them if I don’t like the way this one looks like he could murder me in my sleep. So do you want me to date or…?”

“I want you to get the stick out that’s shoved so far up your ass. You work with children all day, and go home alone every night, and play with yourself,” you snort as you keep flicking through a few maybes, but mostly a bunch of no’s. “So you just have no sexual drive whatsoever?”

“Sex is more to me than just getting off. I need you to empower my eyes, my mind, control my body without touching me. Make me want you,” sex is sex of course. But you need to feel needy without penetration. The buildup and anticipation should be just as important and amazing as sex itself.

“And you know without a doubt that these men can’t do that to you?”

“Well,” you pause looking through this one’s bio. He was cute, no he was beautiful. Sexy in a rugged kind of way, but a face that looked like it was painted from your imagination as the perfect man. Step one. “First is their look. I do have to be attracted to them, or they’re not getting anywhere close to me with their dicks.”

You are very attracted to this one. He’s in construction. Muscles rippling, sweat dripping down his neck. But in his bio he is a bit of a nerd even adding a corny joke ‘How do construction workers usually party? They are always known for raising the roof.’

You giggle, flipping through more of his photos. He is doing it right, they’re just of him. No guesswork as to which one he is, and he has a pretty smile. Pretty and smart, even if he had dad jokes, and you’re sure there’s more than just that one. Not exactly empowering your mind, but he got your attention. And being cute and sweet was a part of being sexy.

But that last photo of him — he is one hundred percent bonafide beyond sexy, incredibly handsome man. He looks tired in this photo, maybe even a bit sad. His hands are in frame, and why is the fact that they’re dirty turning you on? Sweat drenched shirt, so it’s sticking to him, and leaving nothing to the imagination. But it isn’t what you would call the normal thirst trap. No this is designed to hit your every fantasy. And it does. Just looking at his picture gives you the most vivid dreams of him. Is that wrong?

Maybe a fictional man can exist. At least for one night. You could completely have a one night stand with him. Could find yourself daydreaming that a one night could be more, and could turn in to the most perfect love song that no one had even written yet.

Yes, this man could be the one that you would consider wrecking all your plans of being single forever. You could have fun with this man, but only if he matched with you. Oh, you didn’t think this through. At the very least you had a picture to add to your spank bank. Back to the point of this being normal to have sexual fantasies of people in your real life? Someone you could quite possibly run into eventually?

How could you even react? This is the man that you had pictured in every one of your romance novels that you drooled over every night claiming that there is a reason that fictional men are superior and that’s because men sucked. Women could never be enough. Your boobs are too big, they’re not big enough. Your hair is too short, and now it’s too long. They like a woman that doesn’t wear a ton of makeup, but they want you to look like a Kardashian.

Everything men say is a contradiction. Everything they want doesn’t add up. There’s holes in this plot, and it just makes absolutely no sense. And now you’re rambling in your head as your best friend stares widely at you, and you place your phone in your lap looking at her.

“You totally found a good looking man and your brain just went wild with different scenarios that could happen, but doesn’t mean that it will happen. Am I correct?” This is the problem with having a best friend. They just knew.

“Shut up.”

“Just swipe right, and put yourself out of your misery. You are so picky,” yes you are, but she didn’t have to call you out on being picky.

“I’m not picky. I’m very selective, and I’d rather be alone than settle. I don’t need sex,” she reaches to grab your phone, but you’re quicker. “I did swipe right. That is what you’re supposed to do right? What — Zo! What if I swiped left thinking it was no, and it was on all those guys except the one man that I wanted. Am I supposed to swipe right when I want him?” Your heart starts to race as you think of the possibility that all the men you found repulsive are the ones that you liked.

“Swiping right is correct. And judging by this whole meltdown you just did, you do in fact need sex,” you puff out a bit of air as you collapse on your couch. This is exhausting. You are going to give yourself an aneurysm if you continue at this rate. Why does everything seem so stressful? Dating in your thirties sucked. And not the good kind of suck.

And don’t try to judge yourself because you took a screenshot of that last photo. You weren’t going to do anything with it, but just look at it, so tonight when you were reading about a faerie king you had a face to put with his name. It’s that simple and that’s all it was. Nothing more, nothing less.

You take a glance down at your phone, mouth going agape as you read the notification. All of that nonsensical blubbering and worrying about how you were going to most definitely be alone forever, and you accepted that. But now the most beautiful man you have ever seen in your life just matched with you.

“Um, Zo?” She can tell by the stunned look on your face, and your lack of words the onslaught on emotions and thoughts what happened.

“I’m booking the waxing immediately. We’ll go pick you out a new outfit, and you need fresh new lingerie. Is he cute?” You sit stock still, and refusing to even open your phone, just stare at the notification. Men did not find you attractive in a sexual way. And if they did, they never acknowledged it. You could flirt with the best of them, but all it got you was a free upsized fries. Or a free matcha, which you are positive was made before you, and they just never picked it up. So it was completely accidental.

Could this amazing looking man with his cute bio have made a mistake in his swipe? Maybe he thought that right was a no. He just got confused like you did.

I did have something planned, but it feels wrong. So can I say your beauty is so enchanting that it made me forget my pickup?

What the hell is this? You’re dreaming. This cheesy and corny man messaged you. So it wasn’t a mistake, you’re just living in a fantasy world where men like him talked to women like you. The lies you’ve made up in your head have made you crack. You are not a woman that can travel through time. Nope, you are a kindergarten teacher, and he was a fine as fuck man who matched on Tinder with you. On purpose.

“What the fuck do I even say?”

“Dinner?” Zoey starts laughing. Your friend loves to watch you squirm, but this isn’t what’s happening, you are trying to make this make any form of sense. It doesn’t. There is no way that this man meant to do that.

I think I’ve done something wrong.

Or are you online?

Ignore these messages. Maybe I made a mistake.

No! He didn’t make a mistake. ‘Sorry, I was trying to get away from my company. What mistake could you have made?’ God, that line was so cheesy. Just bury yourself in the sand and never emerge. This man is going to think you’re an absolute idiot. What the hell.

Your throat tightens up as you wonder exactly what he could be thinking. Does he think you’re as big a loser as you feel right now? Or is he already going, never mind, she’s not worth the time? And isn’t it just sex? Is Tinder more than that? Surely it is, even if the people have made it into a hookup site.

Good. You wanna have some dinner this Friday?

Yes.

Good. Perfect. Amazing.

Okay.

No, I mean thank you.

I’d enjoy that.

My dating etiquette is really rusty.

No worries. So is mine.

That was excruciating. Ouch, you hurt from the embarrassment. But dinner. There’s dinner in your future. “I need a new dress and lingerie. Forget the waxing. Let’s go.”

Bucky winces as his daughter, Isolde, runs down the hallway screaming. He looks at his best friend, Steve, and he shakes his head. “She’s on crack.”

“No. No, she was just at her mother’s,” Kenton. The bane of Bucky’s existence. She came around maybe twice a year. And of course wanted to insert herself the past weekend because it was Izzy’s birthday. “She’s got no raising at Ken’s. If…I’d like full legal custody of Izzy, but until then I play fucking nice.”

“Daddy said a bad word! I’m telling my teacher,” his cherub faced daughter runs into the living room before disappearing just as quickly. She was in love with her teacher. Bucky was thankful for his parents, and only slightly annoyed he didn’t have time to meet her.

“What is Miss Bambi doing?” Steve screams down the hallway, and Izzy steps back out of her room, shaking her head no. “What?”

“Fawn. Miss Fawn. Deer are her favorite animals, and she said Bambi was already taken. I am the chameleon of the classroom. And Jacob is the penguin,” she covers her mouth giggling as she runs back into her room, and Steve twists his head towards Bucky so fast. He’d have to talk to her about this Jacob.

“Each kid has a nickname, don’t ask questions. They love it. If Izzy wants to be a little lizard…”

“Daddy! I need a pet chameleon!” Hearing another loud bang, both men’s eyes go wide, and they turn towards her room.

“I can’t be responsible for her,” Steve shakes his head, “Why not wait until she gets a bit more acclimated to being home again? Are you just going to let her destroy her room?”

“She didn’t like the present her mom got her, and asked if she could break it,” Steve gives his friend a weird glance, chuckling when Isolde starts to evil laugh.

“I taught her that,” Steve beams proudly at his goddaughter, “What is so important?”

“A date.”

“Come again?”

“A. Date.”

“Bucky Barnes! Is this from Tinder? Wait, that’s why you want me to watch her at my house? You dog. You dirty little bastard! You’re finally going to get you some? This is great.”

“Number one,” Izzy runs back into the living room, and stands in front of her uncle, wagging a finger at him, “I’m telling my teacher you said a bad word. Number two, what does daddy need to get besides pizza?”

“Yep, that’s exactly what I’m getting you. Go — do whatever evil little master plan you’re doing with your toy, and I’ll order pizza. Because daddy needs to get some — pizza,” he steps in front of his friend shaking his head. This was a bad mistake. Not because of you, but because Steve was going to make a bigger deal out of this than he was ready for. It wasn’t anything major. It was his yearly time to get out there to see if dating was worth it, and it rarely was.

Too many games, and too much time. At least with Tinder there didn’t seem to be any confusion on how the evening would go. A bit of dinner, laughs, fun, and…you go home? He takes you to his home? He goes to your place, and sneaks off? No, that’s rude. He offers to call a cab? Wait, how are you and him going to get to wherever you are going?

“I don’t feel good.”

“Ahh! No! Not all women are like Ken. They are not all evil bitches that like to use your daughter as a bargaining tool. They are not all her. Don’t you dare put your issues with one woman on another one. You may have fun, you know?”

“Steve! I’m telling Miss Fawn you said two bad words!”

He is just as nervous and awkward as you, and you sigh in disbelief. Legitimately laughing at his corny jokes, and when he smiles, the nervous knot in your belly loosens up, but a warm tingling remains. The restaurant is small and cozy, and he is a delight. He doesn’t turn you off, in fact…

Oh yeah, he’s hitting all your spots. Everyone of them. Amazing to look at. First step with attraction. The way his face lights up when he talks and tells a joke, he’s not faking. His sweet little giggle, and nose scrunch make your body all fuzzy and giddy. All these different adjectives to describe the buzzing in your brain feels almost dizzying, and you welcome it. No, you want to pull into your body and keep it with you forever.

Well, until the morning comes and you imagine for the rest of the weekend about what it would be like if Bucky wasn’t a man that was going to eventually disappoint you, and that it could truly be real and true love. And you live happily ever after, which of course you know is a lie because men just don’t like you like that.

And the man is smart, and well traveled. Talking about how he spent his twenties moving around for work, and enjoyed every second of not being tied down. You suppose that is a positive and something you should have done more in your life. But now, he’s somewhat settled. You don’t even know what the ‘somewhat’ part means. But you like to look at him. Looking at him feels wet, and you would completely be ashamed to admit that out loud.

And he even casually and occasionally touches you. You’ve seen how dirty his hands get, but they’re clean now. And warm. And strong, and when he talks with his hands a waft of his sexy, clean and fresh cologne invades your senses, and you’re a goner.

Oh oh, when he leans towards you, whispering something in your ear, and his lips touch your neck just the tiniest bit, and your insides light on fire. That was definitely not an accident, and you want to devour every touch of his petal pink lips. You’re so deprived of actual touch that this was all it took, and you are a simpering fool for this man.

Your pupils turn into a black pool of lust. Nearly trembling from the vibrating that his scent has your body doing. You’re ready to place yourself in his lap allowing him to feel your pulsing heat, while the other patrons of the restaurant be damned. His body scoots closer to you, and you feel his own buzzing radiating onto your skin. Thankfully you’re not alone. He’s fully aware of what’s happening, and he wants it, too. One night can’t hurt.

His hands finds a home on your thigh and he rubs up and down. Up and down. Each time getting higher, and dipping lower between your legs. Up and down. Lick the annoying tick of a metronome, and the tempo speeds up. You feel like you’re going to explode as an odd pleasure courses through your body. Going to come undone right here in front of these people.

Whimpering out his name when he leans into your neck, “Without sounding too forward...”

“My place?” Fuck. Well, aren’t you just the eager beaver? Men don’t like when you’re too forward. They want a lady, until they’re ready to pounce, and then you bend to their every whim and let them use your body as your plaything. You would like to be treated as a play thing. That actually sounds nice to give someone else the control over your pleasure and not just tapping the button on your battery operated boyfriend. Power tool.

“Okay,” he says enthusiastically. Looking over the table as he adds up the amount before he lays down a few bills. “We are — how do I say this?”

“I want you to fuck me like you own me.”

“Good.”

Good? Oh god this man is going to have you turned inside out, and wiping drool off the floor. No, he’ll probably have you licking the floor. Sweet Jesus. Maybe Zoey was right. You need a real man with real hands and a real touch.

And a real reality check. You sigh, leaning your head back on your shoulders as you run your hands down your front. That man changed your life forever. You’ll never forget that man, or apparently get back in touch with him. You’re sure there’s some stupid excuse as to him deactivating his Tinder. And maybe a decent excuse. But that left you here. Alone. With twenty-three five year olds.

Alone. All alone. It is what you wanted after all. Well, this part of your life you didn’t see coming or planned on it but it is what it is. Alone.

That word used to sound like a dream, and now it is the sound of nails on a chalkboard. Irritation of how one night of fun could make one’s life change so rapidly, while also you were open and ready for the changes.

It’s a moment of thinking your life would be one way, you were comfortable with your life of solitude. Accepted the life that was laid out before you as a thirty-five year old woman. Of course, everything did not happen according to your plan of life when you were a child, but you had come to the realization that it was your life, and you were okay with it.

And then there was Bucky. He made you realize some personal things. That you were a woman with needs, and you were a woman that was desired. Although not desiring more than that one night did do something to your fragile ego. That is not something you were ready to come to terms with. Nor the frustration, confusion, and yet clarity that came from that connection.

“Miss Fawn!” You look towards the student that was left. Her chubby little cheeks try to smile at you, but she is worrying away at her lip. “Do you think they forgot about me?”

“Oh, no, sweetheart,” you offer a smile, sitting in your chair, and you tap your lap. “Come on, we’ll wait together. The office has called someone to get you, okay?”

Her face turns up into a forced smile, but she walks over to your lap all the same. Crawling up, and laying her head on your shoulder. You look down at her a bit odd. She didn’t normally get too touchy with you, but clearly she was scared about being forgotten. “You’re tired and want to go home.”

“I’ll go home once someone gets you. I’ll always stay behind.”

“You’re nice. Next year can I have you as my teacher, too,” you brush back her flyaway hairs, but shake your head no. She is sweet. Adorable even. She is one of the more enthusiastic children in your class. “Why not?”

“Because, you’ll move up to first grade,” the sad reality of being a kindergarten teacher is seeing them so young and scared, and then they turn into these balls of energy, and they actually like you. But you have to set them free to another teacher. It is cruel in ways.

“Will I still be a chameleon?”

“Oh, honey, if that’s what you want your nickname to be,” she gives you a pretty little smile before she starts picking at her dress. Her little fingers convey the anxiety she has bubbling inside of her and waiting for them to calm with any familiar face to walk through the door.

“My mom hasn’t called since my birthday,” she rarely mentioned her mom, and it leaves you wondering what the best approach would be. If you were in her shoes what would you want an adult to say? But you’ve never been in her shoes. Your parents were miraculously still in love and still together. Freaks of nature.

They couldn’t understand how and why you were where you are in life. Your decision, your life. Leave you alone. And that’s how they had to approach you nowadays.

“Izzy, baby, I’m sorry,” that damn voice. You could feel the whispers on your skin as Bucky’s fingers entwined with yours. His whole weight on you as he slowly pushes into your body.

His sweaty forehead presses against your own as he begs, ‘Give me one more time, gorgeous.’ You lost just how many one more times you actually had. No one had ever made you feel so engrossed in pure pleasure quite like Bucky did that night. And he can nonchalantly walk around like that? Still sweaty and dirty from working and still fine as fuck. And thinking he can come in here and you not feel something. It’s just your cunt that feels it.

“Oh,” he stops halfway towards his daughter when he realizes that it was you whose lap she was sitting in, “Hey,” he struggles to get out your name, and the fucker scratches his head trying to look away. Was he really going to waltz into your classroom and act like that? Like nothing happened. But you have him stunned. Good. That’s what you’ve felt since that night.

You were already a bit irritated that Isolde was his daughter. You never saw that man cross the threshold of the school. It was always her grandparents that picked her up. “Daddy, this is Miss Fawn. I told you that you would like her. You’re doing that weird thing with your fake hand,” his left hand not so casually dips into his pocket, and you cock up an eyebrow.

Liked you? Liked you and then removed his profile from Tinder. What kind of ridiculous nonsense was this?? Izzy jumps off your lap, and runs to her dad, and he adorably picks her up for a sweet kiss before putting her on his hip. And your heart aches.

No! Don’t you dare find him being a dad cute. It hurts. Seeing him be a dad stings and pangs, and makes you want to hurl your guts out. Something that thankfully you haven’t done for a few hours. Standing up from your chair, you turn to go grab her things.

The room isn’t silent, but you hear it. Hear the giant gulp that Bucky takes as he sees you from the side. “Miss Fawn is having a baby. How far along are you now?”

You remember that night like it had just happened. How he had literally picked you up and told you how you were going to be positioned for him. How every bit of your body lit up with his ministrations. And the way that he made sure that more than just your cunt was stimulated. You even remember exactly how many days ago it was. It helped with determining how far along you were.

“I’m four months. You shouldn’t worry about that though. I won’t have the baby until school lets out. So what is your fact of the week?” Bucky is a frozen little bastard. You swear you can see his calculator working out exactly how long ago that was. Protection scmection. He had to have super sperm. Maybe you didn’t use your pills just right, but a condom was fucking involved. And even the way he took that shit off was sexy.

You could write poetry on how he pulled off the rubber, keeping his eyes on you while you gaze at his member, wondering how it fit inside of you. And with too much ease, he ties the protection up, tossing it in your garbage, and he still got back in the bed, and he still held you. His lips couldn’t stop kissing over your sweaty skin, and you were so high with euphoria you couldn’t remember his name.

Asshole.

He had to have one flaw. His? Sperm that could penetrate anything, and the ability to disappear.

“Oh, oh! Chameleon actually means ground lion,” you crinkle your nose as you smile at her, handing Bucky her things, and hoping that his parents pick her up tomorrow.

“Daddy, can we go to Miss Fawn’s baby’s birthday shower?” Her chubby little hand presses against his cheek, and she forces him to look at her, and not you any longer. He was part of making this baby, but you didn’t need him. If he wanted to ghost you, he could. You had savings. You had your own place. You had the space. And you didn’t need Bucky Barnes.

You just still really really want him. And only a small part of you wanted him to make you whine as he rails into you. “Baby shower, Izzy. And I don’t think I need students coming. How about when you get home you show your daddy the book you made about chameleons?”

“Have…you’ve always been her teacher?” He’s observant.

“Mhmm,” this is so awkward. Could he just go already? You didn’t need him to gawk at your swollen belly where his donation was growing. You were getting to the point you were going to shout in front of his daughter that he knocked you up, but you didn’t need him. Or his money. If he didn’t want to be in your life, who cares? Definitely not you, and your romantic ideas. Or even just the thought of having him again. No! Stop that. Hormones. It definitely wasn’t your body betraying you as it craved Bucky’s touch, and his cock.

“I…I should call,” no, he should leave you alone. Just like he did four months ago.

“You don’t have my number.”

“I deleted the app. And then realized I didn’t have your number, and then couldn’t remember my login information, and,” he takes a deep inhale, and your mushy hormonal brain can’t handle this information. You were in no way ready to process whatever the hell he was saying because he didn’t have a stupid excuse. It was an excuse, but it made sense. “I…I have so many questions.”

“The answer is yes. And your daughter is with you. Maybe you should set up a parent/teacher meeting. My school email is on the website. Have a good evening Mr. Barnes,” he doesn’t want to leave, but he looks at his daughter, and back to you with a nod. And you’re left with conflicting feelings on what the hell that just was.

Sure, maybe you could have tried harder, but you just thought he wanted to fuck once and be done, so you gave him that out. But after all those years of wanting children, and thinking it wouldn’t happen, you looked at this like a blessing in disguise. But…what was that? So much was said, and nothing was said all at the same time.

Maybe you didn’t have to be alone.

And maybe you didn’t have to have a fantasy of an impossible man when there was something between you and Bucky. At least your body still thinks so.

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