Sanctuary

Sanctuary

Summary : Bucky needs to vent, and you’re there to listen. One day, you both try a powerful sex magic ritual that blurs the line between healing and love.

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

Warnings/tags : Reader has Retroactive Clairvoyance (you can touch an object and see its past), cursing, mutual pining, friends to lovers, sex ritual magic (more suggestive and emotional than outright explicit), therapy, mentions of masturbation, past trauma, cursing, initial friends-with-benefits arrangement. Let me know if I miss anything!

Word count : 10k

Note : Purely self indulgent stuff lol. Hopefully this makes sense, since I’m trying a lot of new concepts in this. I have three stories coming in the next week or two, including new parts of Spoils of War, Super Soldier Support Group, and a short story of Bucky's day to day life as an amputee. Meanwhile, Enjoy!

Bucky left another therapy session feeling like a failure. Again.

He sat in that same sterile office, hands curled into fists, his lips feeling useless. He wanted to open up, but the moment he even considered talking about his past, his chest tightened, his mind locking up like a steel trap.

His third therapist in two months sat across from him.

“I’m sorry, but… if you don’t open up,” she said after another long silence, “I can’t help.”

She was giving him a lifeline, he couldn’t reach for it.

Instead, he just nodded, stood up, and walked out.

By the time he made it home, the dam inside him finally broke.

He sank to the floor of his apartment, his back pressed against the couch, his hands gripping at his face as if he could physically hold himself together. His body ached, but his mind ached more. 

For fuck’s sake! Why can’t he just say it? Why can’t he just talk about his past?

Maybe he needed a telepath. Or—hell—maybe a magician.

Wait.

An idea manifested in his mind.

Doctor Strange.

That guy did weird shit all the time. Maybe he could fix this. Maybe he could make it easier.

Bucky didn’t even wait for morning. He grabbed his jacket and made a beeline for the New York Sanctum.

—

Strange opened the door in his robes, looking mildly irritated until he saw who was standing there. Bucky Barnes.

They weren’t friends, not really, but they crossed paths here and there and ran similar circles. They knew each other enough to say hi and exchanged nods at brief encounters. But Bucky knew one thing: when conventional medicine failed, Strange had turned to magic.

And that was exactly what Bucky was doing now.

Strange hesitated. “Sergeant Barnes—”

“I need you to read my mind,” Bucky interrupted desperately. His hands were shaking.

Strange blinked. “I—what?”

“You deal with this kind of thing, right?” Bucky’s breath was coming in ragged gasped, as if he had run all the way here. Perhaps he did. “I need to get it out.”

Strange did not have to ask what it was— he had enough trauma of his own to know.

“I can’t do that,” Strange frowned, still half-blocking the door. “What do you think I am, a witch?”

Bucky shook his head, frustrated. “Then erase my memories of Hydra, Just—just make them gone.”

Strange looked at him like he was going insane. “No.”

Bucky clenched his teeth. “Why not?”

“Because that’s you,” Strange said firmly. “Whether you like it or not.” His lips pressed together. “Besides, the last time I tampered with a memory spell, it had some… unintended consequences.”

Bucky tapped his foot, brainstorming for more ideas, “Then can you—”

“No.” Strange sighed, already sounding exhausted, like he could see exactly where this conversation was going. “Go to therapy, Barnes.”

“I tried.” Bucky’s voice was strained, his breath uneven. His fists clenched, metal whining under the force. “I can’t do this,” he choked. “I can’t—” His throat locked up as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to calm down .

“I can’t say it out loud.” His voice trembled. It sounded almost… broken. “Please.”

Ah, fuck.

Strange didn’t have it in him to turn Bucky away—not when the Ancient One had taken him in when he was lost. And sure, Bucky wasn’t physically impaired. He was an amputee, yes, but with a state-of-the-art prosthetic that made him stronger than most.

But his mind was a wound no technology could fix.

Then it clicked.

His arm. Not the one Shuri had made for him—the other one. That held the solution. 

“Fine,” Strange sighed, rubbing his temple. “I know someone who might be able to help.”

Bucky swallowed hard, “Who?”

Instead of answering him, Strange studied him. “Do you still have your old Hydra arm?”

Bucky’s stomach twisted, a sick feeling in his stomach. What did that have to do with anything? “…Yeah.”

“Good,” Strange nodded. “You’re going to need it.”

—

The next day, Strange led Bucky through the New York Sanctum’s entrance, stepping seamlessly from one world into another.

Bucky had seen some shit in his time, but magic still floored him. The shift between the doorways was jarring —one second, he could feel the familiar bite of the city, the next, he was enveloped in a humid, warm air that smelled like incense and aged parchment.

His fingers flexed around the strap of his duffel bag as he followed Strange through the winding halls of Kamar Taj. The students and sorcerers alike passed them, clad in robes of deep crimson and gold. 

Bucky wasn’t sure what he’d signed up to. A mind-reader? A magical therapist? Someone who could just reach in and rip the words from his skull?

“Where are we going?” Bucky broke the silence.

Strange didn’t stop. “To see one of the kindest souls I know.”

Bucky gave him a skeptical look. “That’s… vague.”

Strange didn’t elaborate.

Finally, they stopped in the historical wing, outside a quiet study. The moment Strange stepped inside, his shoulders relaxed.

“You’re back early,” you said.

Bucky turned just as you rose from where you sat cross-legged at a low wooden table, an ancient tome open before you. The navy and gold of your robes pooled slightly at your wrists as you smoothed them down. 

Without hesitation, you walked over wrapped your arms around Strange in a sisterly embrace.

Strange chuckled, patting your back once. “Miss me that much?”

“You never visit just for fun anymore,” you smile, pulling back. “It’s always something.”

Strange sighed. “Well, you’re right about that.”

Then your eyes looked over his shoulder.

To him.

Bucky felt your eyes on him, not in the way most people did. You were not wary, not cautious, not even fearful. You were assessing.

Strange cleared his throat, gesturing between you. “Sergeant Barnes.” He introduced, then turned to Bucky, “She’s a historian-sorceress. One of my oldest friends here.”

Bucky offered a small nod. “Just Bucky’s fine.”

You smiled the sweetest smile Bucky has ever seen. 

“Nice to meet you, just Bucky.” You extended a hand.

He hesitated, just for a second, before shaking it with his human one. 

“She was born with a rare gift, even among sorcerers,” Strange leaned against the table, arms crossed. “Retroactive clairvoyance. She can see the past of objects she touches.”

Bucky’s fingers thrummed against yours before he let go. You sat back down, inviting the two men to do the same across from you. 

“You can just…” he swallowed. “Touch something and see what’s happened to it?”

“More or less,” you explained. “It’s like a ripple effect. Objects, unlike people, start off as empty vessels. They absorb the energy and information around them— the people who held them, the emotions they carried. I can tap into that.”

Bucky turned to Strange, voice hoarse. “So she can see—”

“Your past?” Strange shook his head. “Not quite. It doesn’t work on living things.”

Bucky froze.

He felt it like a gut punch. The tension in his chest coiled tight enough to snap. Then why the hell am I here?

He was so close. He thought this was it. That someone could finally see the things he couldn’t say.

Strange must’ve seen it in his face because, for once, he looked sympathetic.

Strange let out a slow breath, folding his arms. The lines on his forehead were softer—more measured. More doctor than sorcerer.

“He needs help,” he said.

You glanced at Bucky. He was stiff, his fingers twitching slightly. He wasn’t meeting your eyes.

Strange continued. “He’s tried putting in the work in therapy, but… there’s a psychological barrier.” He hesitated, searching for the right wording. “Something is preventing him from verbalising what he needs to.”

Your brow furrowed. “Something?”

Strange nodded. “His autonomic nervous system is overriding his intent. A trauma response, maybe even conditioning. The moment he tries, his body shuts him down.” His eyes went to Bucky. “And he needs… an outlet.”

Your throat tightened.

Strange turned back to you. “I wouldn’t have brought him here if I didn’t think you could help.” 

You hesitated, then looked at Bucky again. His teeth were clenched so tight waiting for a definitive answer, it  looked painful. 

Gently, you asked, “Is that… true?”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, his throat bobbed. Barely above a whisper, almost ashamed, he confirmed. “I can’t say it.”

Oh.

“I want to help,” you said gently. “But I can’t just… reach into your mind. That’s not how my magic works. You know that, Strange.”

“I do,” Strange admitted. Then, he glanced at Bucky. Then, to his bag.

Right. He still had one thing.

Without a word, he reached inside, he hesitated.

Then, he pulled it out.

The glint of metal caught the candle light as he set it down on the table between you.

Bucky forced himself to meet your eyes. His heartbeat roared in his ears. “Can you read that?”

Your lips parted slightly. Slowly, you reached out—but stopped just short of touching it.

Your fingers hovered over the metal.

“This,” you said. “I can work with.”

—

So you got to work immediately.

For the next fifteen minutes, you rolled up your sleeves and cleared a space on the low wooden table. Your fingers moved with practiced ease, lighting incense and summoning runes— not because they were necessary, but because grounding objects helped stabilise the energy.

Strange, of course, loitered like an overbearing older brother.

“Do you mind?” you asked, rolling your eyes.

“What?” He asked.

“This is private, Stephen,” you nudged him toward the door. “Go hover somewhere else. You’re throwing off my vibe.”

“I don’t hover—”

You took him by the shoulders and physically turned him toward the door.

Strange sighed dramatically but didn’t fight it. He gave one last look at Bucky before stepping out. “Barnes, if she sets you on fire, that’s on you.”

“Out, Strange.”

—

After Strange left, the air shifted.

You turned to Bucky. 

He sat by the table, stiff as stone, his arms locked at his sides like he didn’t trust them to move. His eyes flicked to you, then away, then back again, as if expecting something from you but not sure he could accept it.

“Let me be clear,” you started. “I’m not your therapist.”

His wrist flexed. “I know.”

“I’m not here to fix you.” Your voice softened as you explained. “I’m just here to listen. To let you show me what you can’t say. In the hopes that one day, you can say it.”

It felt embarrassing, seeking magical help just to vent, but he nodded anyway. 

Your heart broke at the sight of him, muscles wound tight, trying so hard to be unreadable, but even without magic, you could see the exhaustion carved into his bones. He’d been carrying these memories for so long he probably didn’t remember what it felt like to be without it.

You lifted a hand toward the metal, hovering just above the arm.

“You ready?” you asked.

He gave a single nod.

With your free hand, you conjured a swirl of golden light, curling like smoke between your fingers. The magic settled on your wrist. “Hold my hand,” you said. “It’ll link us. You’ll see what I see.”

Carefully, he took your hand.

His flesh palm was solid and rough with callouses. But there was pause when he touched you, like he wasn’t used to being gentle. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be.

Slowly you pressed your other palm to cold metal and truly focused. 

After a few minutes, the room dissolved, and the past bled into view.

At first, there was nothing but darkness. 

Through the arm, you saw it, tucked away in the back of a closet, hidden like a shameful part of him that didn’t really ever belong to him.

You willed your clairvoyance to go back further.

You saw the impact— Stark’s repulsor beam colliding with the hand. Then you felt the sudden absence, the severing. It was the moment Bucky had learned, all over again, that pieces of him could be taken.

You went back a bit further, to Romania.

You saw the cramped apartment. You felt the deafening silence in his days, you felt his loneliness. You saw his day to day routine of trying to stitch together a life with hands that had only ever been taught to destroy, saw him writing in a journal to remember things that never stayed in his mind. 

He avoided mirrors. He avoided people. He avoided himself.

Bucky said nothing, but you felt the tension rolling off. 

You were naturally curious, but you started slow.

“Did you ever have a moment of peace in Romania?” You asked.

He said nothing for a moment, until hoarsely, he said, “No.”

“Not once?”

There was another long pause. “Maybe.” He whispered. “But I don’t think it was real.”

Your chest tightened, but continued the session. 

More fragments revealed itself—memories bleeding into one another, looping and circling. He never stopped moving. He never stopped running. 

He hadn’t been safe. Someone, somewhere, was always hunting him.

You didn’t push. Instead, you just let him sit with it, helping him wade through the waters of  the things he had never dared to say out loud.

And he let you.

By the time the session ended, Bucky’s hands were shaking.

So were yours.

Bucky stared at the arm, amazed that this object that he had always seen as a weapon had told his story. His fingers twitch against your palm, like he was reminding himself that you were still there. 

You squeezed his hand.

He flinched, but then relaxed.

His shoulders didn’t fully let go of tension, but at least he looked more… open.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you,” you said quietly. “Come back next week.”

—

Bucky showed up without Strange next time, though Wong let him in without a word. He looked tired but he was more relaxed than last week, his shoulders weren’t braced like he expected an attack at any moment. Perhaps he was relieved he had a person to vent to— perhaps he felt like he wasn’t carrying it alone anymore. 

You had the room set up before he arrived. The incense curled in steady ribbons toward the ceiling. The runes shimmered in a careful circle. And on the table, the old metal arm sat where it did last week. 

When the session started, you pushed further back.

Fifteen, maybe twenty five years. 

You saw Washington, D.C, the helicarrier plummeting from the sky. 

Then you saw Steve. 

Then, you pushed further back.

You saw a Hydra bunker with concrete walls. You saw a prisoner cornered by the Winter Soldier. 

“Compliance will be rewarded,” his handler said.

The soldier took a clean shot.

You pulled yourself away from the memory. Across from you, Bucky sat rigid.

Softly, you asked him, “Did you know him?”

Bucky shook his head, “No. I—” He swallowed hard, squeezing your hand. “I didn’t let myself.”

For a second, you thought he might retreat, close himself off the way he always did when the past clawed its way too close… but he didn’t.

That night, he stayed longer than necessary.

He didn’t speak much after the session ended, but he didn’t rush out the door either. 

Eventually, you made a simple offer. “Tea?”

You expected a refusal. But to your surprise, he nodded.

So you brewed a pot, and set a cup in front of him. 

The conversation drifted to nothing of importance—the weather, the strange antics of the Kamar Taj apprentices, the book you’d been reading.

—

When he came in for the next session, brought you a cup of coffee. “Figured it’s only fair,” he said sheepishly. 

This time, you reached further into the arm’s past. 

First you saw a bar— a man in an American army uniform. He ripped Bucky’s arm apart from the elbow down.

You recognised the flags on the scene—  this was the Korean war. Bucky recognised the man as Isaiah Bradley. 

Then, you pushed through.

You saw a man in a lab coat, and the Winter Soldier strapped to a table. He was fixing his metal arm.

You heard a title whispered in fear. “Zimniy Soldat.”

In this period of his life, Bucky knew no such thing as warmth. He knew no mercy. He was punished for losing. 

You gasped as you pulled your hands away. Bucky’s breathing was ragged, his forehead damp with sweat. He didn’t look at you — his gaze was locked on the table.

“I didn’t really remember that one,” he admitted. “They wiped it.”

You squeezed his hand without thinking. “I’m still here, Bucky.”

His grip tightened ever so slightly. “I know.”

—

Somewhere along the way, the conversations stretched far beyond the sessions.

Bucky stayed a little longer each time. At first, it was for the usual tea. Then, he would stay for meals. Then he’d stick around just to sit with you, watching as you worked with ancient scrolls or prepared lessons for novices.

You teased him about how the coffee he brought had become a habit. “You trying to bribe me into liking you, Barnes?”

He’d smile shyly. “Is it working?”

You wouldn’t admit it, but it was.

One day, after one of your sessions he brought something… interesting up. “Your gifts,” he whispered. “How do they… work?”

You tilted your head.

He wasn’t asking for small talk. He was asking because he trusted you. Because after all the things you saw in him, all the nightmares you witnessed in the metal limb he hated so much, you were never fazed. He wanted to know why.

So you told him how it started when you were young. How, when you were twelve, you touched an ancient dagger and saw every soul it had killed. How the visions consumed you, how you saw uncontrollable flashes of blood, of screams, of deaths.

“How did you deal with it?” he asked.

You hesitated. “For a long time, I didn’t,” you admitted, “I was scared to touch anything at all. I never knew when it would happen. It was… exhausting, seeing things I couldn’t control.”

He looked at you with recognition— he knew what it was like to be a passenger driving through horrors you never asked for.

“Then I went to Kamar Taj,” you continued. “To learn how to control it. I trained in sorcery, I put a leash on my gifts. Now… I only see the past when I focus. It’s easier this way.”

Bucky considered his response for a moment, then asked, “Do you ever wish you couldn’t see it at all?”

You swallowed. “Sometimes.” you admitted. “There were things… I wish I could unsee.”

Bucky’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I get that.”

And you knew he did.

After that, he started worrying. You noticed it in the way he hesitated before speaking, the way he looked guilty everytime you walked through the door.

One evening, after a particularly heavy session, he ran his vibranium hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t keep doing this.”

You frowned. “Doing what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between you. “Dumping all this shit on you. You’ve got enough to deal with, and I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “It’s not fair to you.”

Your brows furrowed together. “Bucky—”

“I mean it.” His voice was quieter now, but no less serious. “I’ve seen what you do. How much it takes out of you. And I keep coming back, expecting you to just… listen. Like you don’t already have enough on your shoulders.”

You stepped closer, fingers gliding softly along his human arm, tracing his bare skin. The touch was intimate enough to make his breath hitch.

“I can handle it,” you insisted, “I want to handle it.”

He didn’t answer. He studied your face, searching for some sign that you were lying, or that you were just saying what you thought he wanted to hear.

But there was no pity in your eyes, just resolution.

Strange had told him once that you were one of the kindest souls he’d ever met. Bucky hadn’t believed it at first. After all, he didn’t believe in kindness without an agenda.

But now, he wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.

Soon, the stolen glances stretched longer. The not-so-casual touches lingered just a little too long. He held your hand longer than necessary during sessions. The hugs before he left grew tighter, sometimes you weren't sure he even wanted to let go.

You both knew you were falling for each other—but neither of you said a word.

Bucky wouldn’t say it. Vulnerability had never come easy to him; it was the very reason he was here in the first place.

And you cherished this—whatever this was— too much. You weren’t willing to risk scaring him away.

—

The memories from this particular session hit harder. You were reaching sixty, seventy years back.

You saw another Hydra facility. Another mission. 

This one was early—one of the first ones he went though. His handler’s voice echoed in his mind. The soldier had done what they ordered him to, he had eliminated the target. But then you saw a child.

She was a witness.

The Soldier turned, his gun raised—

Bucky’s hands trembled before the vision even ended. You barely had time to react before he wrenched his hand from your grip and shoved back from the table, stumbling to his feet.

“I can’t—” His voice broke. “I can’t do this.”

“Bucky—”

“I killed her.” His blue eyes were wild, frantic. “I don’t even know her name, and I killed her.”

Tears welled in your eyes. It had been a long time since a vision had made you cry. “It wasn’t you.”

“Don’t.” He shook his head violently. “Don’t tell me that. I was there. I pulled the trigger.”

“You were a prisoner.”

“That doesn’t change what I did.”

“No.” You insisted, standing up and wiping at your face “But it changes why.”

He didn’t argue.

Breaking down, desperate sobs ripping through him like hands clawing out of his chest. His knees buckled, and before he could collapse, you caught him.

Ever so gently, you lowered him to the floor, holding him as he fell apart.

“Bucky,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around him. He clutched at you like a lifeline, his face buried in your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t believe it, but he held on anyway.

That night, Bucky stayed. Not only because he wanted to, but because he needed to.

You didn’t say much— you didn’t have to. Instead, you quietly laid out pillows and blankets on the couch in your quarters at Kamar Taj. “You can sleep here,” you told him.

And he did.

The next morning, you stirred first as sunlight filtered through the door. Shifting beneath your blankets, you turned your head toward the couch.

He was still there.

His body curled slightly, breaths slow and steady—the most peaceful you’d ever seen him.

You weren’t sure how long you watched him, memorising the rare ease in his face, the way the tension had melted from his shoulders. 

Later, before he left, he hugged you.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You held on a little longer than usual, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket, unwilling to let go just yet. Surprisingly, he let himself lean into it, let himself accept it.

Because the truth was, last night had been a catharsis he hadn’t even realised he needed. So when he finally stepped back, there was something different in his expression. The haunted look that had always lingered in his eyes had eased, if only slightly.

For the first time, Bucky didn’t look like a man drowning.

He looked like a man who might finally learn how to breathe.

—

You thought today would be the last session.

The Hydra arm rested on the table one final time, but it felt different now. Lighter, maybe. The memories were still there—they always would be—but they no longer clawed at Bucky’s chest like an open wound. He had vented them out to you, piece by piece, and you had listened.

Someone finally listened.

When the visions faded, you found him already watching you. His blue eyes, so often cloudy, were clearer than you’d ever seen them before. “That’s it,” you said, hands hovering over the arm as the last wisps of the protection runes dispersed into the ether. “There’s nothing more to read from it.”

Bucky exhaled a long breath that felt like a closing door— or maybe the opening of a new one. You waited for him to stand, to leave. 

But… he didn’t. Instead, his hand moved to the front pocket of his jacket.

“I, uh—” He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I have one more thing.”

You blinked as he pulled out a silver chain, dog tags dangling from his fingers, gleaming faintly in the dim light.

This felt more… intimate.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

He turned the tags over in his palm, running his thumb over the worn engraving. “You know the Winter Soldier,” he said quietly. “But I want you to know…the soldier.”

Bucky met your eyes, searching for something—hesitation, uncertainty, a reason to stop. But you didn’t look away.

“You’re sure?” you asked softly.

He nodded. “I am.” His fingers tightened around the tags before extending them toward you.

Without another word, he placed the tags into your hands.

Without a word, you re-summoned the runes and you reached for his other hand, his human hand.

The hum of magic stirred once again. 

You saw him falling.

The wind roared in your ears as Bucky plummeted from the train in the Alps. His arm—his real arm—torn from him.

You went further back.

You saw The Howling Commandos sitting around a firelit camp. Bucky grinned, a boyish, carefree thing, clinking his canteen against Dum Dum Dugan’s. They were celebrating a successful raid. 

The dog tags were clearly connected to Bucky in a way the Hydra arm never was. It was demanding you further back.

Then you saw Zola in a Hydra lab Steve rescued him from. Metal restraints bit into his wrists. Bucky was unconscious, but the dog tags remembered a needle pressed into his arm, the unactivated serum flooding his veins. 

No. No. The object was telling you to go further back.

You saw gun fire and mud– this was the trenches.

Bucky had a rifle in his hands, the deafening blast of artillery shaking the earth beneath him. Bucky was there, a young man, charging forward. 

No. No. No. You needed to go back.

You were almost there.

The visions slowed. 

Yes.

This was it. The dog tags wanted you to see… this.

You first heard the crackle of a radio.

You found yourself in a modest Brooklyn apartment.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, hair neatly combed, his Army uniform crisp in the dim light. In the other room, his sisters chattered excitedly.

His mother stood before him, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You look so handsome, James.”

Bucky ducked his head, the tips of his ears burning. “Ma, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Good.” She cupped his face, thumb brushing against his cheek. “You be careful out there, sweetheart.”

“I will.”

When you returned from the vision, you were trembling. The dog tags were still clutched tightly in your hands. This… contained the unbreakable threads of the young man he had once been.

“I’m not him anymore,” Bucky said quietly. “But I’m not the Winter Soldier, either. I don’t know who the hell I am.”

“You’re both,” you whispered, rubbing a finger on his knuckles. “And neither.”

He looked at you like you were the first person to ever say those words, the first person to see him.

Your hand still still curled around the dog tags, the metal pressing into your palm like an anchor. “Bucky, I—”

“I just—” He cut you off, his voice dipping to something barely above a whisper. “I just… I wanted you to know.”

Your throat tightened. “I’m glad I do now.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. Your hand stayed in his, even though you didn’t need to hold it anymore, even though you probably shouldn’t.

You stood, clearing your throat, and pressed his dog tags back into his palm. He followed.

“I…” You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. “As much as I like having you around, I have a class to teach soon.”

“Right.” His voice was rough, if not a bit disappointed. But he didn’t step back.

Instead, he stepped closer.

He was so close now, you could see the flecks of silver in his stormy blue eyes, the way the lines around them relaxed when he looked at you. You could see the faint scar along his jaw. He parted his lips slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

His eye flicked to your lips—just for a second. And godammit, you wanted him to close the distance. To kiss you. To let go of whatever invisible tether was holding him back. To let himself have this— have you.

But he didn’t.

And neither did you.

Instead, his forehead dropped to yours. His metal hand hovered just above your waist, wanting, but never quite making contact.

Neither of you moved.

The moment stretched, until finally, he stepped back.

“I should go,” he said more to himself than to you. But his eyes told another story.

You nodded, even though every part of you wanted to reach for him. To tell him to stay.

“Okay.”

Bucky turned toward the door. His fingers hovered over the handle. 

“Bucky,” you called out. 

He stopped.

You swallowed hard. “I’ll see you next week?” You asked

There was no reason for him to come back. You had read his old arm. You had read his dog tags. There was nothing left to read.

But somehow, he knew he would find another excuse.

“Yeah.”

—

Later that night, the courtyard was quiet, the last of your students leaving after training. The lanterns lining the stone pathways flickered gently as you stretched out your arms, feeling the satisfying ache of exertion settle into your muscles.

You barely had a moment to enjoy the silence before you felt a powerful presence behind you.

“Strange,” you said without turning around.

He let out a low chuckle. “Impressive.”

You rolled your eyes before finally facing him. Stephen stood there, arms crossed over his chest, his cloak shifting slightly with the evening breeze. He looked entirely too smug for your liking.

“What do you want?” you asked, already suspicious.

He tilted his head. “Oh, nothing really. Just noting how distracted you were today.”

Your head tilted inconfusion. “Distracted?”

He took a step forward with his eyebrows lifting in an I-know-more-than-you way. “Your spellcasting was slightly off. Not by much, of course.” His smirk deepened. “Wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a certain super soldier, would it?”

Your stomach dropped. “I—”

“No, no, don’t even try to deny it.” Strange waved a hand, “I see the way you look at him.”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t—”

“You do,” he cut in, as if he was having fun watching you squirm.

You tried to keep your expression neutral. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, please.” He dismissed, “You might as well have a neon sign pointing at you that says I am in love with James Buchanan Barnes.”

Your face burned. “I—I am not—”

“You are,” came another voice.

You turned around to find Wong strolling into the courtyard.

“Not you too,” you groaned.

He stopped beside Strange, regarding you with both amusement and respect. “I thought we were waiting to see who’d break first.”

Strange shrugged. “I got impatient.”

You turned to Wong, desperate for someone to be reasonable. For fuck’s sake, isn’t the sorcerer supreme supposed to be reasonable? “You don’t actually believe this, do you?”

Wong sighed. “You train all day, wield magic beyond comprehension… and yet, you remain utterly clueless.”

“I am not clueless!” you protested.

Strange snorted. “Oh, you are.”

You huffed. “Even if—and that’s a big if—I had feelings for Bucky, it wouldn’t matter. Because he doesn’t feel the same.”

Strange and Wong exchanged a look.

Then, Strange let out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s just tragic.”

You glared at them. “It’s true.”

Wong crossed his arms. “And what, exactly, makes you think that?”

You hesitated, suddenly feeling a little ridiculous. “Because… he just doesn’t, okay?”

“Ah, yes,” Strange blinked. “Flawless reasoning.”

You shook your head with a sad smile. “I know he doesn’t.”

Because why would he? Bucky Barnes, who had seen the worst of the world, who had lived through unimaginable horrors— and still came out a good man, what would he want with you?

You refuse to dignify them with a response. Instead, you turned on your heel and marched toward the temple doors.

You didn’t look back.

—

The week after, Bucky arrived with a worn canvas bag in his hands.

“Things from before,” he clarified. “Before the war.”

The bag was filled with small trinkets. A dog-eared playing card. A tarnished pocket knife. A button from an old jacket. Every piece had a story, and with each memory you glimpsed, Bucky unraveled a little more.

From the card, you saw him running through the streets of Brooklyn, Steve’s laughter echoing behind him. You saw late-night card games in cramped apartments. You felt the satisfaction when he won and the frustration when he lost.

The knife had been a gift from his father. The button was from a coat he’d shared with one of his sisters one particularly brutal winter. Nothing fancy — just pieces of a life lived.

When the visions stopped, he could almost believe he might be happy again.

After the session, Bucky’s vibranium fingers traced absent circles on the armrest of his chair. “What are you up to after this?”

You hummed, pretending to think. “Trying to avoid some novice sorcerer who asked me to try a sex magic ritual.”

Bucky choked on air. “Sex magic is a thing?”

You chuckled, holding back a smile. “Yep. Sometimes it’s used for healing. Sometimes for severing bonds. You can even curse people with it, but cursing people through means of intimacy is technically forbidden magic.” You shrugged. “But this guy? He just wants to sleep with every sorceress in Kamar Taj.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s… I—” He shook his head like he couldn’t quite process it. “And people fall for it?”

“Not really.” You laughed softly. “He can’t even open a portal yet. So no, no one’s really falling for it.”

Bucky tried to force out a laugh but couldn't— he was trying to find humour in it but failing. 

Because he was now thinking about it. He was already seeking alternative ways to let his thoughts out— this was just another step further. 

Then, after a moment, his voice dropped. “Would it…” he considered his wording, “Could it help me?”

The question caught you completely off guard. You stilled, your fingers curling slightly against your robes. “Sex magic?”

“You said it could be used for healing.” He nodded once. “Can it heal… my mind?”

“It could. But it’s… more of a painkiller than a real fix,” You swallowed. “It would only work if you want it to work.

“I do.” His words were quiet, but firm. “I want to.”

You coughed, perhaps a tiny bit of jealousy kindling in your gut. You shook it off, though. “I can refer you to a specialist,” you offered, “They do this for a living, so you’d be in good hands. And you can have gender preferences if that makes you more comfortable.”

“What if I’m only comfortable with you?” Bucky said without thinking. 

You froze, looking like you’ve just seen a ghost. 

Fuck, Bucky thought, I screwed it up, did I?

Your lips parted. “I—I mean—” You were tripping over your words, looking for something, anything to say. “I can do it. I’ve trained in it, but…”

Bucky frowned slightly. “Is it something that requires a fee?”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “No, not for me, anyway. I could do… it as a favour to you.” A favour? you thought to yourself. What were you saying? You were just spitting shit out now. “But like I said, I don’t specialise in it. I’ve only done it with trained sorcerers.” You explained hastily. 

And you certainly haven’t done it with anyone you cared about. 

Bucky’s eyes didn’t waver, though. “Then only if you’re comfortable.”

His voice was steady— the same way he’d spoken when he handed you his items. 

“I…” You swallowed. “I’ll think about it.”

—

After Bucky left, you spent the rest of the evening pacing your study, rearranging the same three books on your shelf, and trying — failing — to think about anything else. Bucky’s words kept echoing in your mind.

You hated how much your heart fluttered at the thought of him. You hated how part of you was already thinking about what it would be like. Not just the ritual, but also Bucky, trusting you like that.

Perhaps, to him, you were more than someone who could listen. Perhaps, you had become his sanctuary.

By morning, your resolve crumbled.

Which was how you ended up in the library with Wong, nursing a cup of tea and fidgeting with the hem of your sleeves. The Sorcerer Supreme sat across from you, already halfway through his own cup.

“I need your advice,” you said finally.

“Of course.” Wong nodded, watching you carefully. “What about?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then groaned. “This is going to sound ridiculous.”

“Highly likely.” He took a sip of his tea. “Go on.”

You let out a deep breath. “Bucky asked me if I’d consider doing a sex magic ritual with him.”

Wong blinked. Then, without missing a beat, calmly set his cup down. “I see.”

“Not like that,” you rushed to explain, heat creeping up your neck. “He’s not trying to seduce me or anything. He’s just—he’s struggling. He wants to heal. And I know the ritual can work without being necessarily romantic.”

“And yet you’re clearly thinking about it more than you’d like to.”

You winced. “Yeah.”

Wong didn’t respond immediately. You were glad you found him here without Strange— Stephen would never get through this conversation without making an inappropriate joke

Wong studied you. 

For a while, you braced yourself for a lecture. Maybe a reminder of the ethical considerations. The emotional risks. 

Instead, he said, “You should do it.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been working nonstop,” Wong continued, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re exhausted. Mentally and physically. Even the sunshine of Kamar Taj needs restoration.”

“I’m fine,” you argued, though the slight tremor in your voice didn’t help your case.

Wong raised a brow. “Are you?”

You scowled. “Okay, maybe I’m a little stressed.”

“You’ve been more than a little stressed,” he corrected. “And while I’m not suggesting you treat this as a casual fling, engaging in a ritual with someone you trust can be beneficial. For both of you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but… he wasn’t wrong. The ritual wasn’t just for the participant seeking healing. The practitioner often experienced a sense of renewal too. It was a mutual exchange of energy. 

And you did trust him.

But…

“That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea,” you pointed out. “Especially considering—”

“Your feelings for him?” Wong interrupted, a rare smile on his lips.

You stared at him. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Wong—”

“Please.”

You buried your face in your hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“It’s not,” Wong said. “It’s simply… life. And if you do decide to go through with the ritual, I suggest you stop pretending your feelings don’t exist. They’ll only complicate things further if you ignore them.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “So, what? You think I should sleep with him and see what happens?”

“If that’s what you want.” Wong shrugged. “You groaned again, sinking further into your chair. “I can’t believe I’m talking to you about this.”

Wong looked a bit too proud of himself. “I’m an excellent confidant.”

“You’re an ass.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He stood, gathering the empty cups. “And don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

You let out a breath of relief. “Thank you.”

“…Unless Strange bribes me.”

“Wong.”

“Or if he’s really annoying. Then I might have to tell him just to see the look on his face.”

“WONG!”

—

You stared at your phone for a long time. Wong’s words still echoed in your mind— you needed to be honest.

Right. Honesty. Simple.

You took a breath, then hit the call button before you could overthink it.

It barely rang twice before Bucky answered.

“Hey.” His voice was lower than usual, like he hadn’t expected you to call but wasn’t exactly surprised either.

“Hey,” you echoed, gripping the edge of your desk. “I… I’ve been thinking about what you asked.”

There was a pause before he answered, “Yeah?”

“I...” You exhaled slowly. “I want to help you.”

You could hear the way Bucky was processing your words, turning them over in his mind.

“Are you sure?” he asked. 

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Bucky let out a vulnerable breath. “When?”

You swallowed. “Would this Friday work?”

There was a shift in his tone— was he... excited? “Yeah. That works.”

“Alright,” you said. “I’ll take care of everything. Just… bring yourself.”

“I can do that.” His voice was so gentle now’s “And, uh… thanks.”

You closed your eyes. “Always.”

—

When the day came, you had chosen one of the private sanctuaries deep within Kamar Taj— it was quiet, undisturbed, and you had protected the room with advanced wards before he even got here. The torches flickered steadily along the walls.

Bucky stood a few paces away, clad in the same deep red Kamar Taj robes as you. They had been enchanted to help regulate emotions, to keep things from spiraling too fast. It was a precaution, one suggested by the specialists you had consulted.

And yet, despite the calming influence, you could feel your heartbeat rush. 

Bucky’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides.  He wasn’t nervous—at least, not in the way most people would be. He just.. didn’t not know what to expect. 

You took a breath, centering yourself. “Alright,” you started, your voice even. “Let’s set some ground rules.”

Bucky gave a single nod. “Shoot.”

You shuffled in your spot, “This is no strings attached,” you reminded him, even as something in your chest ached at the words. “Just… what you asked for. A way to work through it. That’s all.”

Another nod. “Understood.”

You exhaled slowly, pushing forward. “The specialists advised some precautions.”

Bucky raised a brow. “Precautions?”

You ignored the way his voice sent a shiver down your spine. “No kissing,” you said, “Not on the lips.”

That made him pause. His head tilted slightly, “Why?”

“It… it’s too intimate,” you admitted, clearing your throat. “Or so I’ve been told.”

His eyes remained unreadable, but you kept going. “It could complicate things. Distract me from the spells I’ll be casting.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered down to your hands as you lifted them, fingers curling, magic beginning to weave between them. Gold and amber light swirled, delicate but potent, a shifting balance of power between your palms.

“This is a give-and-take,” you said, more to yourself than him as you worked the spell into being. “Healing magic in sex is… an exchange of energy. It takes pain and converts it into pleasure. Shifts the weight of it.”

Bucky’s eyes followed the movement of your hands, the glow illuminating his beautiful features.

“And you can do that?” He asked. 

Your fingers traced symbols in the air, sealing the magic between you both. “I can handle it,” you said simply.

You took a deep breath as you cast another rune. “You ready?” you asked 

“I…” he said, “yes.”

And then he took a step forward.

Oh. This is really happening. 

You reached for the belt of your robes first, fingers steady as you untied the knot and let the fabric slip from your shoulders. The red fabric pooled at your feet, and beneath it—nothing. You were bare under his eyes, under the flickering torchlight.

Bucky sucked in a deep breath. His gaze studied you. And fuck— his pupils dilated, his lips parted just slightly—

"You're beautiful,” he said without thinking. 

“Thank you,” You swallowed, heat curling at the base of your spine, but you kept your hands steady as you reached for his robe next. “May I?”

Bucky nodded.

Your fingers brushed against his waist as you untied the fabric, and his breath hitched. The robe slid from his broad shoulders, revealing inch by inch of muscle, of scars that told a story only he truly knew. And fuck—  he was gorgeous.

Your mouth felt dry.

The flickering torchlight caught the planes of his chest, the deep ridges of his abdomen, the lines of his collarbone. His vibranium metal arm gleamed under the glow, its intricate gold inlays reflecting the fire. He was all rough edges, but still so devastatingly gorgeous. “Wow,” you said under your breath, barely realising you spoke it aloud.

You didn’t think Bucky would hear you, but he did. He chuckled, leaving heat creeping up your neck.

“Nervous?” He teased. 

“Hm,” you didn’t even try to deny it. You wet your lips, “maybe a little.”

A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he said nothing as you raised your hands to your chest.

With deliberate precision, you traced the first rune over your sternum, whispering the incantation under your breath. The air around you shimmered, golden threads of magic unfurling from the sigils and sinking beneath your skin. The protective spells settled over your ribs, anchoring the energy exchange, ensuring neither of you took more than the other could bear.

You reached for his hand and guided him toward the bed.

A flick of your fingers sent a soft, golden light washing over the sheets. Protective runes wove themselves into the fabric, ensuring the bed would hold the weight of the magic about to pass between you. They pulsed once, then dimmed, leaving only the lingering warmth of your spell in the air.

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with dark, unreadable eyes. He was waiting.

You straddled his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours. His hands came to rest on your waist, fingers splaying over your bare flesh. You could feel the restraint in them, the way he held himself still, waiting for your lead.

Your breath fanned against his neck as you pressed your lips to his pulse point, magic curling from your touch, sinking into him like sunlight through water.

His breath stuttered.

You traced a slow path downward, pressing lingering kisses along his throat, across his collarbone, down the center of his chest. His fingers flexed against your hips, not in a demand, but in quiet, aching need.

You could feel it—the coil of tension beneath his skin, the way his breath deepened as your mouth brushed lower. The way his muscles tensed under your touch.

But this was more than desire. This was magic.

You pulled back just slightly, summoning the power to your fingertips.

Golden light flickered to life along your hands as you traced intricate runes across his skin. Each stroke of your magic marked him, not just with symbols, but with intent—with protection, grounding, balance. They pulsed softly as they sank into his flesh, wrapping around his ribs, down his back, anchoring him to you.

Bucky let out a slow breath, his head tipping back slightly as the magic settled into him. His eyes, when they found yours again, were heavy-lidded, dark with something deeper than want.

When you moved back up, he met you halfway.

His lips found the curve of your throat, pressing slow, reverent kisses into your skin. You sighed into his touch, the runes on your body flaring in response, golden light illuminating the space between you.

Bucky’s hands skimmed up your spine, pulling you closer, his mouth tracing a path along the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. You gasped, pressing against him as the energy between you shifted, crackling like lightning, settling into something slow and molten.

The ritual had begun.

The magic thrummed between you, a living thing that pulsed in time with your racing hearts. The golden runes etched into your skin glowed softly, responding to the ebb and flow of power, to the exchange of energy passing between you and Bucky.

His hands moved slowly. You realised, he was mapping you out. He was trying to learn your body. The heat of his touch left trails of warmth along your spine, across your ribs, down the curve of your back. You shivered, not from cold, but from the sheer intensity of it. 

This felt… sacred. More than it has ever before. 

You guided him as much as he guided you, breathing heavily as his lips found the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. Magic rippled at the contact, light flaring and then settling into a rhythmic pulse.

It built between you, curling and twining like the roots of an ancient tree. His name fell from your lips in a whispered sigh as he pressed closer, his breath warm against your ear.

His forehead pressed against yours for a moment, his fingers tightening at your waist as the runes burned brighter. The connection between you was solid, magic weaving around your souls, tethering and healing.

And as you moved together, the world beyond the walls of your sanctuary ceased to exist. There was only this—only him, only you, only the inexorable pull of magic in whatever little space there was between your bodies.

A high tide of energy curled through your veins, vibrating beneath your skin. The golden runes flared between you, pulsing in rhythm with your shared breath, your racing hearts. Each touch sent another wave of heat rolling through you both, coiling tight like a bowstring drawn to its limit.

Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers pressing into your waist as though anchoring himself, His breath was ragged against your ear, almost wrecked. “You feel that?”

You did. Fuck, you did. It was like the entire universe had narrowed down to this. To him.

The runes along your skin burned white-hot for a suspended moment—And then… 

As you both came undone in each other’s arms. A final pulse of energy crashed over you, through you.

Fuck, did it feel so good. 

It was all-consuming. 

The magic burst outward in a golden flare, illuminating the room, The torches flickered wildly.

Bucky shuddered beneath you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. You held him close, your fingers buried in his hair, your own body trembling from the aftershocks of power.

You stayed still for a long moment, letting the last remnants of magic fade from your skin, the runes cooling to faint, dormant sigils. 

The ritual had worked.

The energy was balanced, pain had been siphoned, the tension had drained.

The world beyond these walls felt unimportant. There was only this peace that settled deep in your bones, as if the ritual had stripped away every last thread of stress you built that week.

Bucky laid on his back, one arm folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. His vibranium fingers traced absent patterns against your bare shoulder. “For the first time…” His voice was hoarse. “My mind feels… quiet.”

You closed your eyes. God, he hadn’t known peace for years. Maybe decades. And knowing that now, even if only for a fleeting moment, the ghosts that haunted him were silent, made you feel… good. You had played your part in that.

You let your fingers drift up, brushing over his shoulder. “It will return,” you murmured. “This is… a temporary fix. It will last for a week, give or take. Could be shorter, could be longer. Magic’s funny like that.”

Bucky hummed, considering your words. Then he said—

“I guess I’ll see you next week.”

Your lips parted. He was serious. You could hear it in the rasp of his voice, in the way his fingers trailed against your skin.

You should have reminded him this was supposed to be a one time thing, that this wasn’t something to rely on. 

But you didn’t.

Instead, you swallowed, let the warmth of his body seep into yours, and whispered,

“Yes.”

—

And that was how it started.

Every week. Same chamber. Same time.

Bucky returned to you without fail, stepping into the ritual space stripping off his robes without a word, letting you paint the runes over his body like a prayer.

For him, it was a reprieve—a chance to quiet the endless noise. For you, it was an escape, a way to bleed out the exhaustion of your work at Kamar Taj, to lose yourself in the rhythm of magic.

It was supposed to be a ritual. A transaction.

But it never felt that simple.

“You’ve been handling high-stress situations remarkably well.” Strange once asked, not looking up from the book in his hands, but you felt his attention nonetheless. “Unusual, given how you used to— well, react to pressure.”

You kept your expression carefully neutral, turning a page in your own book as if you hadn’t heard him.

But Doctor Strange never let things go so easily. “And then there’s the chamber you keep booking.”

You froze.

That was all he needed.

He looked up, narrowing his eyes. “It’s Barnes, isn’t it?”

Your fingers curled against the parchment, but you didn’t speak. 

Strange sighed, closing his book with a thud. “Let me guess,” he said, “You keep telling yourself it’s just the magic.”

“It is just the magic,” you said.

He gave you an unimpressed look. “Magic has a way of ruining things when you refuse to acknowledge the other half of the equation.”

“There is no other half.” The words came out too rushed.

Strange tilted his head, almost amused. “So you’re saying there’s absolutely nothing else going on here? No… affection? No feelings?”

You let out a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “This isn’t about feelings. It’s a means to an end. He needs the pain gone. I need—” You stopped yourself before you said too much.

But Strange caught it anyway.

“Mm.” He hummed, tapping his fingers against the table. “Well. I’m sure that logic will hold up forever.”

Strange was right, and you knew it.

Love was an ancient, primal force — was never something to take lightly. It wasn’t just a word or a feeling; it was a power. A force that could shift the very fabric of existence. And in magic, it was one of the most unpredictable powers. Love was strong enough to bind, to mend, to destroy.

And yet, you refused to acknowledge it. 

So you had drawn extra runes for protection. Carefully layered wards against emotional entanglement, even though each time Bucky touched you, they frayed a little more. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That the tenderness in his touch was just the magic. That the way he took care of you afterwards was just a side effect of the ritual.

Bucky didn’t feel the same. He couldn’t. Right?

But love demanded to be acknowledged, and Bucky didn’t know this— but the last couple of sessions in the chambers, the magic had taken from you more that you could give, simply because the primal force love was angry that it wasn’t taken seriously. It had drained you, but Bucky still left you satisfied. And besides, he still reaped the rewards. 

So you would stay quiet, sacrifice a part of your energy as long as he stayed happy with this arrangement

Because if you did say what you felt out loud… and he did not reciprocate his feelings… well. You just couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Losing this, whatever this was. 

—

Over the past few weeks, your retroactive clairvoyance has begun to spiral out of control. And you… weren’t sure why.

You had spent years mastering it, learning how to pull at the past with  intent, how to channel the energy with purpose.  

But now, you felt like you were a kid again.

Now, the visions struck without warning. at times when you least expected them.

Worse, when you did try to summon memories, to command your gift, sometimes... nothing happened.

It had started subtly, with a missed glimpse here, a half-formed vision there. Then, two days ago, you had tried to trace the origins of a simple feathered pen, only to feel nothing. It was as if the object had never been touched by time at all.

And yet, later, when your fingers had accidentally brushed against a spear in the armoury, you had collapsed.

Your breath had ripped from your lungs, your mind had been yanked under the surface of the earth.. You had seen everything— the battles fought with that weapon, the blood spilled in its name, the hands that had held it, those that died clutching it. 

Your gift was becoming volatile. Unpredictable. 

Something must be interfering. Something must be disrupting the balance.

Or maybe… something was feeding on it.

Deepin the marrow of your bones, you felt a presence. A whisper. A demand.

Let us out, it said. Acknowledge us.

And then, an unwelcome thought crept into your mind 

You could not be sure, but perhaps,  the ancient powers of love were trying to get your attention.

—

And then, at the next ritual session, you felt it.

The magic was different. It felt… wild.

Bucky had been inside you, his body wrapped around yours, hands tracing over your skin as the spell reached its peak. But then — it happened.

White-hot, searing energy shot through your chest. Your gift took over, and the moment your fingers brushed over the metal of his vibranium arm, the past came flooding in.

You had accidentally gotten a vision from it.

You saw Bucky, in his dimly lit bedroom.

The sheets were messy, his hair tousled. He was splayed out, chest heaving, lips parted.

Oh.

His hand was wrapped around himself, needy and desperate. And his eyes were shut, his brow furrowed in pleasure.

“Fuck,” he’d groaned.

Then, he said your name.

Your name slipped from his lips, the most sinful sound you’d ever heard.

The vision shattered.

You jolted back to the present, feeling Bucky’s release as he sent you over the edge, too. 

Still tangled together and catching his breath, Bucky pressed his forehead against yours as the magic ebbed. 

But before you could make sense of it, he cupped your cheek with his vibranium arm. 

That touch sent another vision through you.

This time, you were in a diner.

Bucky and Sam sat across from each other in a worn-out booth. Bucky stirred his mug absently, eyes fixed on the dark liquid as if it held the answers to all his problems. Sam, on the other hand, lounged back against the vinyl seat, a grin tugging at his lips.

“So, are you ever gonna tell her?” Sam’s tone was teasing, but the question was genuine.

To be fair, he hadn’t met you in person, but he’d heard plenty about you over the past few months. Bucky couldn’t stop talking about you.

Bucky shook his head. “No.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Bucky’s fingers tightened around the mug. “What if she doesn’t feel the same?” He said, barely above a whisper. “What if I lose her?”

Sam scoffed. “You’re not gonna lose her, man. You two are practically—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Well, based on what I’ve heard…”

Bucky shook his head. “We’re just… each other’s release.” The words felt forced, like he didn’t believe them. “We don’t even kiss.”

Sam snorted. “But you love her.”

Bucky didn’t deny it.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “I do.”

Oh.

You were suddenly back in your body, Bucky’s arm still around you as he came down from the high, the ritual concluding.

He loved you.

Bucky Barnes loved you.

The reason your magic had been so unstable, the reason your gift had slipped beyond your control, was finally clear.

Strange was right. It was love.

Love had been drawn to the ritual like a moth to a flame. It had sensed what you refused to acknowledge, had pressed against the wards you put up, demanding to be seen, demanding to be felt.

And you had denied it.

You had locked it out, convinced yourself that what you and Bucky had was nothing more than a necessary exchange of energy, that it was about balance, about relief.

But required love, especially when amplified by magic, was not something you could simply ignore without consequence.

What… what were you supposed to do with this knowledge?

Bucky’s grip on you loosened, but he didn’t let go. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his breath warm against your collarbone.

“I—” Bucky started, but stopped, swallowing hard. His throat bobbed against your skin, hands flexing on your waist. He didn’t seem to know what to say.

You weren’t sure you did, either.

Bucky finally lifted his head, just enough to meet your eyes. His eyes were dark, his pupils still blown. Hesitantly, as if he could sense that you were deep in though, he whispered, “Are you okay?”

You managed a nod. “Yeah,” you said, though your voice was quieter than you intended. “You?”

Fingers grabbed the dip of your hip. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think—” His lips parted, then pressed together again. “I think I still need you.”

Not the magic. Not the ritual. You.

When Bucky lifted his head, when his hands skimmed over your sides you leaned in.

Because you wanted him, too.

Instead, you chose to surrender, and you kissed him.

The moment your lips met his, everything clicked into place.

The magic that had been unstable and unpredictable, suddenly calmed. No more volatile surges, no more restlessness. You hadn’t realised how hard you’d been fighting it, how you’d buried it beneath duty, beneath ritual, beneath rules meant to keep you at a distance.

But there was no distance now.

Bucky let out a shaky breath and groaned against your lips, his fingers cradling your face like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. 

His lips moved against yours, like he’d been waiting for this as long as you had. And maybe he had. Maybe you’d both been waiting too long, afraid of what love might do to you.

But love was never the thing that made your magic unstable. Denying it was.

Your powers had always been an extension of you, and now, as Bucky kissed you—truly kissed you—they settled. They recognised what you had refused to admit.

That you loved him.

You had loved him before the rituals. And now that you’d acknowledged it, now that you’d let it in, everything made sense.

Bucky pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath still uneven, warm against your lips. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, as if he were afraid to let go. His voice, when he finally spoke, was small.

“…That was against the rules.”

You let out an adorable laugh, fingers slipping into his hair, tugging just enough to make him sigh. “So was falling in love, Bucky,” you sighed, “But you had no problem admitting that to Sam Wilson.”

Bucky froze, his entire body going rigid beneath. His face went red. “How—” he stammered, swallowing hard. “How did you know that?”

You smiled, tracing the part where vibranium met flesh on his shoulders. “A certain arm told me,” you said sheepishly.

“I—” His mouth opened, then shut. His grip on you tightened, bracing to hear a rejection.

But you didn’t let him spiral.

“Bucky.” Your voice was soft, you let your fingers trail down his cheek, over the rough stubble along his chin. “It’s okay.”

He swallowed hard.

“I do, too,” you said.

For a second, he didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe. 

“Y-you do?” His voice cracked on the words, barely above a whisper. He looked so… relieved.

You smiled against his mouth, letting your teeth graze his lower lip ever so slightly before whispering, “I love you.”

The runes around you responded. It pulsed in golden waves. 

Bucky’s hands framed your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. You… were something he couldn’t believe he had.

“You mean it?” His voice was hoarse.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, tracing gentle circles against his skin.“Of course I do.”

Oh.

Maybe the sorceress who could see the past with a touch was the perfect match for the soldier who struggled to say things out loud.

"I love you, too," he said, surprised by how easily the words came.

The words barely left his lips before the runes exploded. It looked like the magic was… celebrating.

Gold lines started to burst outward, flooding the chamber in waves of light, wrapping around you both like a living thing. It pulsed, an ancient force swimming in the air, satisfied at last.

Love had been acknowledged.

And now, the ritual was finally whole.

-end.

extra note: I've been getting a lot of explicit smut requests lately, and as mentioned in my bio, I really enjoy writing steamy and suggestive scenes. I'm more than happy to write emotionally charged moments like the ones in this story, I won’t write overly explicit or vulgar content because it’s just not my strength! There are so many talented writers out there who would write them better than me <3

General Bucky taglist:

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

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

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

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

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

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

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

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

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

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

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings