Connor Zilish Core

i hope the entire tkachuk family rots in hell. fucking disgraceful family.

ok maybe time to pull woll

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

THIS IS SO GOOD I CAN'T AHAHAHHAHAHAH

Not the Time I Meant to Call You

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You burned the past to be free of it. And now it tries to burn you back. That is the moment you finally find the courage to reach out to the one person you know will pull you from the fire.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: emotional abuse; harassment by an ex partner; gaslighting (implied, not Bucky); house fire (graphic); fire; smoke inhalation; near-death experience; panic; anxiety; medical trauma; hospital scene; toxic relationship themes; protective!Bucky; Bucky being a hero, what is new

Author’s Note: Here is the second part to All up in Flames. Please proceed with caution guys, and read the warnings because this does get angsty. There are heavy themes around fire and if you are sensitive to such content, then either stay away or read with care. I did try my best to research fire protocols and safety measures, but please remember that this is a work of fiction. I cannot guarantee the accuracy of all procedures, and it shouldn’t be taken as advice on how to act in a real fire situation! I hope you enjoy ♡

Part one

Masterlist

You are trying very hard not to cry over a dog in a bee costume.

Which is, you think, an admirable effort considering the week you’ve had.

The dog park is noisy in that specific, unfiltered way that only wide-open space filled with too many small, yappy creatures can be. It smells of dirt and treats and city wind, and the sun is too bright for your eyes, but not your skin, and your shoes are already flecked with grass strains you don’t remember collecting.

Natasha is somewhere to your left, throwing a tennis ball for her aunt’s golden retriever named General as though she’s got something to prove. Said it would be good for you to get out. “Fresh air,” she said. “Can’t spiral with a golden retriever licking your knee.”

You hadn’t really put up much of a fight.

It’s hard to argue when your phone keeps lighting up like a faulty traffic signal - missed calls, text messages, voicemails. All those numbers are burning a slow hole into your palm. He probably calls you with the number of his fiancé. It makes you sick.

You haven’t responded.

You keep not responding.

But you’ve listened to his voicemails. And you hated yourself for it. Hated that he talked to you as though you were an old coat he forgot at someone’s house and now suddenly he wants it back.

He’s not yelling but it’s the persistence that wears you down. The little messages that slip through every block, every new setting. The way a new number appearing on your phone feels like a match being struck against your spine.

Because no matter how many times you say it, there is still a part of you that can’t shake what you did. Of how it felt to stand in front of Nolan’s pile of leftover possessions and set a match to it, watch it burn to ash.

You did it to reclaim something.

To breathe again.

But sometimes - at night, when the messages come through in batches - you wonder what would happen if he found out. What he would do if he knew. If he suspected.

You didn’t exactly want to come to the dog park. You didn’t want to smile at strangers or pretend to be charmed by dogs in hats or feel the edge of sunlight on your collarbone and think that you should be okay by now.

You sit on the nearest bench and press your knuckles to your brow, trying not to let your eyes dart to every man-shaped figure near the gate. Trying not to scan for shadows you’ve already erased from your life. The world smells of bark and breath and baking cement.

The sky looks as though it forgot how to commit. It’s the color of chewed-up erasers and the backs of old receipts - washed out, waiting. The kind of weather that sticks to your skin, heavy and indecisive, as though maybe it wants to rain but forgot the script.

Natasha is squatting by General, adjusting the harness. She glances up at you and squints.

“You good?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then try to smile like that’s not a contradiction.

“Do you want to throw it for him?” she asks, tossing the half-slobbering tennis ball in the air and catching it with the same hand.

You grimace. “Yeah, no, thanks.”

Then she holds out the leash to you. You shake your head. General has already been dragging you around the perimeter like a four-legged drill sergeant with a sudden vendetta against squirrels. It worked for ten minutes, but you don’t feel like doing that again. And he seems rather busy trying very hard to dig a hole to China.

You wince at the mud he is digging up that very effectively lands in his fur. “Your aunt’s gonna kill you.”

Natasha snorts beside you, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at the scene. General has abandoned the hole and now starts making a very aggressive effort to roll in a mud puddle with all the glee of a war criminal.

You smile, the corner of your mouth hitching up. “Tell her he got in a fight with a skunk. She’ll probably be proud,” you hum.

“She will,” Natasha agrees. “She’ll say it builds character.” Leaning back, she tosses a stick lazily in General’s direction. He ignores it with majestic disdain.

“He hates fetch,” she says amused. “Prefers war crimes.”

You laugh, small but genuine. Let the sound carry.

The air around you moves gently. Laughter and dog tags and barks swirling in the breeze like falling leaves. You take a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Easy, buddy- hey, hey, gentle. That’s not a chew toy, come on.”

Your head snaps up before you can think twice.

Because that voice has become quite familiar. Too familiar. Warm. A little raspy here and there.

Of course, it’s him.

Bucky Barnes, in jeans and a dark blue shirt that already has dog hair colonizing every inch of fabric. Shoulders broad, biceps hugged, and a red and white bandana tied loosely around his neck as though he is one picnic away from being someone’s Americana-themed daydream. He is holding a leash - attached to what looks like a pit mix with an underbite, large paws, and a tail that helicopter-spins every time it sees movement. Though he’s got eyes that say I’ve seen some stuff.

The dog lunges forward. Bucky doesn’t flinch.

Natasha sees him exactly two seconds after you do. “Well, now look who we got here,” she drawls under her breath, eyebrow lifting with slow, luxurious smugness. “That’s some coincidence. This is getting interesting.”

“Don’t,” you warn her in a whisper, but you can’t help the staring or the weird thing your stomach is doing.

“Don’t what?” Her tone is all innocent sugar and no subtlety whatsoever.

“You breathed suggestively.”

“I’m just admiring the view.”

You are too.

Because he hasn’t seen you yet. He crouches down now, trying to coax the dog - who apparently answers to Tank - into something that resembles good behavior. But it’s hard to ignore the way he moves. So you don’t. Your gaze is fixed on that careful control. That firm patience. His hands, steady. His voice, low and kind and laced with humor.

Your chest does a thing you don’t have the energy to think about.

You can’t hear what he says to the dog, but you can somehow feel it. It thrums through you like a vibration. He seems to try not to scare the animal, as though he knows what it’s like to be too much and too afraid at the same time.

He still doesn’t see you, too focused on the dog.

But the dog is not focused on him.

It’s like he feels you staring.

And then he stares back. With a gaze so intense, it’s as though he sees you made of bacon and belly rubs and destiny.

Something uneasy churns in your chest

The pit mix wiggles in one fluid motion and the leash slips through Bucky’s fingers.

The dog barrels forward.

Your stomach drops.

Time slows. A low rumble of a bark and then a series of joyful, guttural grunts as this four-legged cannonball launches itself toward you as though he was born for this moment.

“Oh sh-” Bucky’s voice is sharp behind him. “Tank! No!”

But the dog is already bolting across the park as though he is auditioning for the canine Olympics with the manic, cheerful energy of a toddler on espresso.

You squeak as the dog leaps onto the bench, all 50-something pounds of him squirming onto your lap, tongue out and very interested in licking every inch of your face.

His tail is wagging enthusiastically and he is lapping at you with the aggressive determination of someone trying to polish a window with their tongue.

“Tank!” Bucky’s voice is harsh and loud, a thunderstorm. “No! Get down! Off, come on- off!”

But you’re laughing, choking on fur, getting pressed into the back of the bench as paws dig into your thighs and the dog noses at your cheek as though he is looking for peanut butter behind your ear.

“Tank! Off!”

Bucky’s voice again, slightly panting now as he finally catches up, grabbing the harness and yanking the dog back with all the frustrated dignity of someone who just lost a game they didn’t agree to play.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes breathlessly, tugging Tank back gently but firmly. “He’s usually- he’s not- God, I’m so sorry. He’s still in training.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve and squint up at him.

And that’s when he sees you.

His eyes go wide. His mouth parts slightly as though he meant to say something but forgot what it was. There is surprise. Then there is softness. Something melting into the lines of his face. Something that settles behind his eyes like sunshine finding a window.

“Oh- it’s- you’re- hey,” he stammers out.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, hey.”

Bucky looks a little stunned. A little horrified. A little amazed. “I’m so sorry. Again. He’s-” He takes a look at the dog, then back to you. “He’s never done that to anyone before.”

Tank lets out a single, satisfied woof.

You glance at him, then back at Bucky. “It’s alright, really.”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Still, I- shit. I’m sorry. I swear he’s not dangerous, he just- he wants to play.” Bucky shoots a sheepish look at you, then at an amused Natasha who stands there with her arms crossed, then back at you. “You okay? He didn’t- he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You try to catch a breath but fail. “No, he didn’t, don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Bucky huffs out a relieved breath, tightening his grip on Tank. He looks at you, and the light in his eyes warms. They are blue and just the tiniest bit wide. The corner of his mouth tips up, crooked and cautious.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, a little quieter.

You still can’t quite breathe right. “Yeah. You too.”

Tank flops down in the grass before you, bopping his nose at your shoe as though he doesn’t trust you not to vanish.

You shake your head fondly. “So… what’s his story?”

Bucky’s grin softens further. “He’s a rescue. Firehouse took him in after a hoarding case a couple towns over. He was half-feral when we got him. Wouldn’t let anyone near him. First week, he lived under a desk and growled at shadows.”

You look down at the dog with sympathy.

Bucky crouches beside the bench now, fingers remaining curled around the harness, his eyebrows raised halfway to the sky. “He’s seriously never done this before. I mean- not unless you’re holding a bacon. Are you holding bacon?”

“Not that I know of,” you respond amused.

Natasha stands there smirking, watching you with twinkling eyes. “Well well well. Look who’s the animal whisperer.”

Rolling your eyes, you swat at your red-headed friend, keeping your movements slow enough not to startle the dog. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky nods toward Natasha. “I’m not saying she’s right, but he definitely seems to like you.”

“He’s got taste,” Natasha adds slyly.

“That, he does.” Bucky’s gaze is fixed on Tank.

Natasha is smirking.

You grow warm.

General is trotting up now. He pauses beside Tank, regal as a lion, then lets out one polite bark and proceeds to sniff him, nose twitching with delicate judgment.

Tank wiggles and sneezes in his face.

Bucky reaches out to pet General softly. “And who are you, buddy, huh?”

“That’s General,” Natasha answers.

Bucky looks up, eyebrows raised. “General?”

“Short for General Mayhem,” she states. “Named by my six-year-old cousin. He thought it sounded cool and dangerous.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

“You see this?” Natasha murmurs, gesturing with her chin toward General, whose tail is twitching low and tight like a predator preparing to pounce. “That’s him flirting.”

You narrow your eyes. “He looks like he wants to murder him.”

“That’s how he shows affection,” your best friend says proudly. “It’s a family trait.”

General takes off then, running in a loose, chaotic arc, tongue lolling sideways, ears flapping like banners.

Tank tries to tear after him, but Bucky’s grip is strong and he doesn’t break loose.

“Uh-uh, buddy. You’re staying here,” he warns, not at all looking like this show of strength is making him sweat. Tank keeps trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s hold, but he keeps him close. His eyes drift up to yours through the curtain of wind-tousled hair. “We’ve been working on manners, but… well, you see how that’s going.”

“Oh, I think you’re managing just fine,” you answer with a grin.

Bucky chuckles softly, looking at you again. Not quickly. Not nervously. Just softly. Intently.

Natasha returnes, dragging General back to your corner of the park with all the resistance of someone trying to reel in a dump truck.

The golden retriever immediately starts sniffing out Tank again.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands back up, brushing nonexistent dirt from his jeans, keeping a strong hold on Tank’s leash.

“So,” Bucky says, to Natasha now. “General, huh? He yours?”

“God, no. He’s my aunt’s. Russian aunt. Scary lady. She thinks dogs should have jobs. He’s trained in four languages and only listens when it’s convenient for him.”

“Almost sounds like this one,” Bucky deadpans. Then nods at the pit mix who’s now lying upside down and chewing on a clump of dandelions like a misunderstood poet. “The guys at the station called him Tank because he crashes through every room like he’s made of steel.”

You smile, looking at the lopsided dog.

“Do you think this is a permanent situation for you guys?”

“No one claimed him,” Bucky says, voice dipping quietly into something gentler. “And now he’s kind of latched on. Just needs to socialize a little more. Get some good training. But might be a permanent situation, yeah.”

“Like a firehouse mascot?” you grin.

He shrugs, but there is a gleam in his eyes as he looks down at you. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tank bumps his nose into your knee again, and you scratch behind his ears.

“He really does like you,” Bucky says softly, eyes on the way you touch the dog.

You hum. “He seems to have been through some shit. But I’m sure he’s in good care now. And I’m sure he’ll behave at some point.” You keep your eyes on the dog. But you feel Bucky’s gaze on you. And it makes your stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way.

General has now adopted a low, slow stalk, tail wagging in dangerous arcs as he inches toward Tank.

“This is going to end in blood,” Natasha sighs, as she tightens the leash again.

But Bucky is still glancing at you. At the softness in your face, the way your knees are pulled up onto the bench now as though you’re bracing for something that won’t come.

“Hey. Where’s your other friend?” he asks, casually.

“Wanda?” you blink. “Oh, she’s- she’s working today. Double shift.”

Bucky hums.

And you stare at him for more than a second.

He’s asking about your people. Not out of obligation or politeness. Out of interest. Because he wants to know. Because he’s listening.

Natasha coughs. Loudly. On purpose.

You both turn.

General has one paw on Tank’s head now, and Tank is lying down in full surrender, tongue out, tail thumping the grass.

“Best friends,” Natasha declares.

You laugh. Bucky laughs.

The sun shines a little warmer.

****

It starts with the ceiling.

Your apartment’s ceiling, specifically - the one you stared at for forty-eight minutes this morning with your phone buzzing once. Then twice. Then three times, like a persistent tap against an already bruised part of your brain. A new number lighting up your screen again, and again, and again, and you know it’s just a synonym for his name.

You still didn’t answer. But he continues calling. Texting. He even sent you screenshots of your favorite songs as though that somehow meant something. And each time you don’t answer, it’s like dragging your tired soul uphill barefoot, hands full of the weight you swore you already let go.

So you leave.

You don’t brush your hair. You don’t put on makeup. You shove your feet into the first shoes you can find, a worn canvas tote over your shoulder, keys in hand before you’ve even fully convinced yourself where you’re going.

Just out.

Just away.

Just somewhere with people and produce and sunshine and the kind of air that doesn’t taste like memories gone sour.

You’ve left your phone on the kitchen table - face down, volume off.

You told Wanda and Natasha you were going out for fruit. They told you to get oranges, or honey, or a distraction. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t have to.

They knew you needed to be alone sometimes, even if they tried their best to distract you.

So now you’re here, walking through the open sprawl of the farmers market with your arms crossed and your face tilted toward the sun, trying to remember what it felt like to want anything at all. The breeze is soft. Smells of ripe tomatoes, lemon soap, kettle corn.

Wooden booths spill over with plums and figs and jars of pickled things. The scent of sourdough and espresso. A toddler is losing his absolute mind over a balloon shaped like a strawberry.

It feels manageable. Which is something. It feels like air, and you take it in.

You’re not looking for anything.

You’re not looking for anyone.

The sky is a soft blue silk someone forgot to iron. A child is screaming somewhere nearby. The wind is polite. It tucks your hair behind your ear as though it’s trying to be helpful. Some other kid is singing off-key to their dog.

You’re just wandering, shoes soft on gravel, following the color and chatter through the stalls.

You let yourself pretend to be a person who likes to browse.

Grapes that are glistening. Bundles of basil so fragrant they make your head spin. Jars of jam in flavors you never heard of - things like honey plum and lavender peach.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite fire hazard.”

You freeze.

An actual freeze, standing there with your hand mid-reach toward a bunch of thyme, and your pulse doing something inadvisable.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes.

In jeans and a navy hoodie, hood down, sleeves pushed up. His hair is a little longer than you remember, tied back in a short knot, and he’s smiling that slow, surprised way that makes you feel like the morning has turned inside out.

He looks like summer if summer had a soft spot for you.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he’s trying not to smile too big.

Your heart decides to practice gymnastics. Your voice, mercifully, cooperates.

“I could say the same,” you reply, trying for breezy and landing somewhere near breathless.

He nods, eyes sweeping briefly over you - not as though he’s checking you out, but he’s checking. Taking you in. Your oversized sweater. The circles under your eyes. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach the corners today.

“You doing okay?” he asks gently, without preamble. His voice doesn’t push. Just opens a space.

You hesitate.

Then shrug, something brittle in your chest. “I needed some air.”

He nods, as though he perfectly understands. As though he really does. “Bad week?” His voice is low.

You want to lie. Say no, say you’re just craving figs or something ridiculous and poetic.

But instead, you nod. “Yeah,” you get out, and it sounds a little heavy even in your own ears. “Something like that.”

You don’t tell him about the missed calls or the way your stomach knots every time you walk past your front door. You don’t say the name of the guy who made your life feel like walking on thin ice barefoot, always waiting for the crack.

But you don’t have to.

Bucky doesn’t press. Just watches you as though he is memorizing the lines of your face for any small shift in weather.

“Glad you’re out,” he remarks after a second, voice deep and sincere. “It’s a nice morning.”

“Could use more sunshine,” you answer, because there’s nothing else in your mind that could fit.

He grins. “Hey, I’m trying.”

You snort, just a little, and the tension in your chest cracks open enough to let in the scent of rosemary and warm bread.

“Is this your usual Saturday routine?” you inquire, fiddling with a frayed thread on your sleeve. “Or do you just stalk open-air markets for fire safety offenders?”

“I only stalk interesting ones,” he responds easily, still granting you that soft smile.

There is a moment of quiet between you, and you’re both standing a little too close for strangers but not close enough for anything else.

The crowd swirls around you both. People bargaining over radishes, someone dropping a jar of honey with a crack - simple weekend chatter in the background.

“How’s Tank?” you ask, genuinely interested.

Bucky’s mouth softens. “He’s good. Still a little weird around other dogs. Still doesn’t understand the concept of stairs. But he’s getting there.”

You grin before you mean to.

“That’s a relief.”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah. He even got clingy. Always has to follow someone around.” He exhales a huffed breath, it’s a little bashful. There is a glint in his eyes now - teasing, maybe. Admiring, definitely. “He’s a good judge of character.”

Your stomach somersaults. Something loose and ridiculous and hopeful starts threading your insides together.

“He was sweet,” you tell him, remembering the weight of the pit mix in your lap, the wet, slobbery affection, the surprise of Bucky’s voice when he recognized you. “Even if he nearly took me out.”

“You held your own,” Bucky states confidently, the glint in his eyes brighter now.

You giggle quietly, glancing down, fingers fumbling with the strap of your bag.

A breeze blows past and flirts with your hair. Somewhere, a vendor calls out that strawberries are two for five.

Bucky shifts his weight. His fingers brush the handle of his bag but don’t fidget. There is a gentleness to him. A patience that could break your heart.

He is careful.

“I was actually hoping I’d see you again,” he begins with a clear of his throat, voice quiet.

Your eyes snap up.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not here, I mean. Just… eventually. Didn’t think it’d be here, but- hey, I’m not complaining.”

You laugh softly, heart stammering.

“I didn’t think I’d see you either,” you admit. “I, uh. I wasn’t sure…”

Bucky’s smile fades just a touch - not in disappointment, but in that careful way people get when they’re making room for your story.

“I get it,” he says, genuine. “Truly. No pressure. At all.”

There is a small pause in him. A recalibration. You can feel it, the way you can feel a shift in the wind before it touches your skin.

“Hey, listen,” he says again, still quiet. “You don’t… I mean, I don’t want to assume anything. Or be too much. Or too forward. I just-” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “If you ever need anything. Like if you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or simply vent about something. I’d be around.”

His hand dips into his back pocket, pulls out a work wallet. He retrieves a card - simple, clean, name and number, folded corners as tough it’s lived a little - and holds it out.

But he doesn’t push it toward you. He just offers. Gentle.

There is something in your chest that twists painfully.

“I don’t wanna make anything weird. Or come off like I’m… pushing,” he goes on, tentative. Talking a little faster. “Only if you want. No pressure. Just- figured I’d offer. I hoped I’d meet you again, and I just didn’t wanna, uh- yeah, you know.”

He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. Suddenly bashful.

Your heart is near your throat. You reach for the card slowly. As though he might pull it away again if you’re too fast.

“Thanks,” you tell him. It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He shifts again. Nervous, maybe. Or just respectful. As though he knows this isn’t easy for you. As though he doesn’t want to pile anything else on top of what’s already there.

Then he tilts his head, opening his mouth, seemingly believing he has to explain himself some more. “Maybe you’ll need some smoke detector advice someday. Or fire extinguisher refills. Emotional support waffles.”

“Waffles?” You want to smile. So wide.

“Yeah. I make good ones. Ask Steve.”

“Steve?”

“Oh, right.” He winces apologetically, and it’s the most endearing thing. “He’s that tall blond guy. Rogers. Known each other since childhood.”

You smile. Nearly fondly. “Well then I will have to take your word for it.”

He chuckles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Your chest aches. Not in a painful way. But in a maybe-there’s-still-good-guys-on-this-planet kind of way.

You look up at him.

His smile is something quiet and relieved.

He looks away first.

“I should-uh,” he gestures toward the other end of the market. “I promised the firehouse I’d bring back peaches. They get weirdly emotional about it.”

You laugh, and it feels real. Not just muscle memory.

“I’ll let you go then,” you say sweetly.

He starts to walk away with a wave. Then stops.

Turns back just slightly. “Don’t feel like you have to call, okay?”

You nod. Your throat closes. “Okay.”

“But if you do,” he adds. “I’ll be around.”

And then he waves goodbye with a last glance over his shoulder, walking off with his hands in his pockets, steps unhurried.

You watch him disappear behind a stall selling fresh bread.

Your fingers curl around the card in your hand.

And you don’t feel like crying.

Not today.

Not right now.

Because the air smells sweet. The sky is clear. And somewhere, maybe, something good is beginning.

Something that makes you feel warm without a fire burning.

****

Bad decisions oftentimes start with a maybe.

Maybe you should just hear what he wants.

Maybe if you talk to him one more time, he’ll stop.

Maybe closure is a real thing and not just a word people throw around like confetti.

You hadn’t meant to actually talk to him again.

Hadn’t meant to let his relentless calls get to you.

But it rang at the same time your thumb was hovering above a different name, a different number - the one Bucky gave you. Simple black type on a white card still tucked into your phone case. You didn’t even mean to look at it. But you had. For the third time today. For maybe the hundredth time since he gave it to you last week.

You thought about texting. Something harmless. Something funny. Something soft. But your thumb froze. And that was when his number lit up your screen again.

You saw it and thought of mold. Of wet towels left in gym bags. Or old perfume evaporating off a scarf you forgot to burn.

But your thumb twitched.

Your thumb tapped accept.

It shouldn’t have. But it did.

You hated how familiar his voice still sounded. Like a song you used to love before you listened closely to the lyrics and found out they were garbage. The same casual tone, the same too-easy drawl like nothing had ever really gone wrong. Like the last six months didn’t happen.

He wanted to talk. That’s what he said. Just a talk. Said he still had some of your things. Things you never asked back for, because what could they possibly be? And what could you possibly want them for now?

But you said yes.

You don’t know why.

You tell yourself you can relish in telling him that you burned his stuff.

You tell yourself it is bravery, even if it is shaped like something else.

You wear jeans and an old hoodie and steady your pulse. You leave your phone in your back pocket and your self-worth tucked under your collarbone.

He opens the door the way he always has. A little too wide. A little too confident. A smile with too many teeth.

It’s an ugly apartment. You forgot how ugly it was. Not physically, though the couch still sags like a dying animal and the curtains are the color of depression.

It’s ugly in the way it smells of memories.

He talks too much. Laughs too loud. Does that thing with his tongue against his teeth as though he is chewing on a punchline.

“Still got that painting your mom made,” he says, smirking as he rifles through a box that looks suspiciously like it hasn’t been touched since you left. “Not exactly my style, y’know, but whatever. Thought you’d come crawling for it.”

You blink slowly. “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” His voice twists sharp. A rusted hinge creaking closed.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. You shouldn’t have come. You knew you shouldn’t have come. But you did. As though your body still thought it owed him something.

“I didn’t ask for anything back because I didn’t want anything back,” you express, finally. Your voice is low, but firm. “I didn’t want to be here again. I didn’t want to see you again.”

He turns. There is something brittle in his posture. Something ready to snap.

“So why are you here then? Huh? Thought I’d say sorry?” His eyes shine in disbelief. “Right. That’s rich.”

“No,” you shoot back. Blood rises in your ears. Your fists tighten, small knots of nerves and shame. You remember the exact sound his voice makes when it drops low and mean, and you hate it. “I thought you wanted to return my stuff.”

“Oh, that?” He tosses a shirt into a cardboard box. Shrugs. “You want this one? Think it still smells like you.”

You don’t answer. You should leave. You should leave right now. But your feet don’t move, as though they are listening for the next note in a song that never ends right.

“And where is my stuff then, huh?” His gaze is penetrating. Demanding. “Doesn’t fucking look like you brought it with you. So why would I give back your shit?”

You flinch. Not visibly. You hope not visibly.

Regret, like a scent, lives in the drywall. In the leather couch that’s seen too much. In the one dead plant that still lays in its pot as though it could relearn to grow.

You’re standing with your arms crossed tight across your chest, as though if you hold yourself hard enough, you won’t fall through the floor.

You’re already angry at yourself. Already chewing on the bitter little pill of what the hell did you think would happen.

“Huh?” he goes on, voice harsher. But he doesn’t come closer. “Where's my shit?”

“I burned it,” you blurt out all at once, taking a step back.

His face cracks.

“What?”

“I burned your things,” you repeat, voice a little more hesitant. But still somehow firm. “I didn’t want them anymore.”

There is silence that feels like the inhale before a slap.

Then he laughs. Not a laugh, really. Something worse. A sound without humor. A shape without softness. It’s sharp and mean and wrong.

“You’re insane.” His voice is crackling ice underfoot.

“Maybe.”

He starts pacing. Cursing. Muttering things under his breath that make old bruises bleed again.

And then he goes over to your pile.

Your sweater. A half-read book. A toothbrush. Pencils.

You think maybe he is going to shove it at you. Demand you take it and get out. You would be fine with that.

But that’s not what he does.

He pulls out a lighter.

One of those fancy electric ones with a plasma arc.

He clicks it on. A hiss. A flame.

You take a sharp breath.

“Nolan!” you warn.

“Why not?” he says, voice dangerously calm now. “We’re doing fire now, right? I’ll play.”

He stops and grabs something - your old notebook. The one with the red leather cover and pages full of dreams you hadn’t wanted to remember. He lights the corner.

“Omg, Nolan, stop!” you shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

The paper shrivels into black lace, turning inward, hissing as though it lives. He drops it on top of the clothes.

A single thread of smoke trails toward the ceiling in a lazy, indecisive curl. You watch it the way someone might watch an ink stain bloom on a shirt - unsettled.

Nolan is still talking.

Still pacing in that way he does when he’s on edge - half fury, half performance, all nerves masquerading as ego. His words have gone jagged, slurring with heat. Every sentence heavier than the last. Weighted with resentment.

“You think you can just burn my shit down?” he snaps, and you wonder if he even hears himself. If he understands how strange it sounds, how cracked. He’s got that look in his eye again - the one that once made you flinch and now just makes you tired.

“Put it out,” you order harshly, gesturing to the fire.

But it’s already licking up the fabric. It eats with the mouth of a beast. The knit sweater you left behind many months ago has been reduced to cinders on one side.

You lunge forward, grabbing a throw blanket, trying to smother the small flames, but they are growing. You forgot how fast fire moves.

“Help me!” you yell, panicking.

But Nolan just stands there, stunned.

The flame consumes the carton and now starts crawling across the cheap rug. It touches a plastic bin and the bin sags, sighs, melts.

Nolan hesitates.

His face splits between pride and dread, one eye twitching with the effort of pretending he is still in control. His thumb hovers over the lighter still. As if he might be able to rewind the fire back into silence.

You start swatting the air with an old pillow off the couch. It does nothing. Just pushes the smoke around.

The fire is bigger now.

Hungrier.

The smoke thickens. Begins to bloom from the rug, unfurling across the floor like a snake looking for ankles.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” you snap.

But he’s frozen. Staring at it. Staring at you.

“Why aren’t you?” he yells back.

You try to remember what Bucky said.

You try to hold onto it - his voice in that fire safety class. You try to remember the sequence of things, the order of calm: Assess. Alert. Act. Breathe.

But there is no calm now.

Just fire.

You’re shaking, and your palms are slick and useless, and your heart is pounding like a wild creature.

“Do you have an extinguisher?” you shout, coughing, turning to Nolan, whose face is lit with flickering orange. He stares at the curtain swallowing itself in flames as though he doesn’t understand it. As though the fire is the problem - not his temper, not the lighter still warm in his hand.

“No!” he yells. “Why would I have a-?”

“Then why the fuck did you set something on fire in your living room?” You can’t believe this is happening. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to hit him and disappear.

But all you do is spin in a frantic circle, looking for something, anything to smother the fire. The old blanket you tried already is a scorched mess on the floor. A sweatshirt is melting in the corner. His apartment is a graveyard of clutter and bad choices.

You fall to your knees, eyes stinging, stomach trembling with too many fears and not enough oxygen. You drag your sweater sleeve over your nose and crawl toward the base of the door. You remember you should cover the gap beneath the door. The towel trick. You remember the warning signs. You remember him.

But this isn’t a stovetop mishap. This isn’t a pan left on too long or an overzealous toaster. This is rage. This is Nolan. This is intentional.

You spot a pillow, hurl it under the doorframe, press it into the crack with your knees.

“If it’s too big to handle,” Bucky had said, “you get out. You call us. You don’t be a hero.”

You feel your chest begin to shrink. Your lungs pull taut. The room smells of plastic and anger and something chemical that doesn’t belong in air. You cough, hard, and stumble back. Your eyes sting.

The fire reaches the curtains.

They go up as though they’ve been waiting. Flames shoot vertical, dancing fast, bright and hot. Orange tongues curl in laughter. Smoke darkens and the room is a storm cloud. Your breath hiccups.

Nolan finally moves. He grabs a towel. Swings it at the fire but it doesn’t do anything.

He spins, eyes wild now, and shouts at you. “You started this!”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

The doorknob is already red. Glowing. It starts hissing when your fingers get close.

Nolan rushes over and tries to touch it. His palm jerks back. He swears. Drops a ragged, “shit- okay, okay,” and starts moving toward the windows.

But it’s too late.

The windows won’t open. The smoke eats the oxygen and you swear the walls are closing in.

You are coughing terribly. Thick gray smoke creeps up your nose, your throat, your eyes. You can’t see.

Stumbling backward, you hit the coffee table with your knees.

You don’t remember unlocking your phone.

Your lungs are fighting for a breath they can’t find, and your eyes are stinging so bad they’re practically sewn shut, and everything is wrong. You cough. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Cough.

The smoke is everywhere. In your eyes. In your mouth. In your throat.

A sour, chemical fog that coats your insides, turning every breath into something punishing. Your fingers are slick with sweat. Your vision a wash of heat and blur. You can barely see the glowing screen.

You don’t even remember pressing his name. Maybe your thumb moved on its own. Maybe your body made the decision for you, the way it sometimes does in the worst moments - when logic is buried beneath fear and your lungs are screaming and your heartbeat is running through your ears like a siren. You don’t remember.

But you must have pressed it.

Because the line connects.

“Barnes.”

His voice.

God. It’s his voice.

Of course, it is. You fucking called him.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. Try to form a word, any word, but all that comes out is a broken cough - violent and dry and helpless. The sound of your panic gurgling out of your chest.

Then silence on the line.

“Y/n?”

You gasp. Wheeze. Cough - wracked, your body bending with the force of it. Your phone drops to the floor, chest convulsing, the sound of flames rising behind you, and it feels as though they already are inside you.

Then his voice again. Sharp. Cataloguing.

He snaps into action. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

There is already movement in the background. His boots against concrete. Radio static flaring, fast instructions in the background.

“Fire,” is all you can croak out.

“Fuck. Okay. Okay. It’s okay- Can you talk? Just try, alright? Need you to say something, Y/n. Need you to tell me where you are!”

You’ve never heard his voice like that. It isn’t low and easy, isn’t the gentle sort of teasing he used in all your meetings before. It isn’t calm. It isn’t composed. It isn’t clipped and professional.

It’s shaking.

You sink to the floor and press your phone to your ear. As though it might pull you out of this nightmare and into him.

You cough again. A ragged, awful sound. “Bucky,”you croak, finally, and it tears out of you like a scream you didn’t have the air for.

The sound he makes isn’t a word. It explodes out of him like something breaking. You hear gear shifting, footsteps quick, boots slamming against the floor, the loud slam of an emergency cabinet opening.

“Where are you?” he snaps. “Tell me where you are. Talk to me. You just gotta tell me where-”

“Can’t- breathe,” you rasp, coughing again, and trembling so hard the phone almost slips.

“Okay.” His voice is trembling too. Rough. “That’s okay. You’re doing great. Just- fuck- just hang on. I need to know where, sweetheart, please. Tell me where.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Force your brain to focus. Nolan is somewhere behind you but the smoke has made him a ghost. The fire’s hiss is louder than Bucky’s voice now. Louder than your thoughts.

Nolan shouts his address out, coughing, pacing.

Bucky’s voice cuts back. Loud. Sharp. “I need confirmation. Hey- sweetheart- are you there? Is that where you are?”

You swallow. “Y-yeah. That’s it. Third floor. I- he- he lit something and it caught- Bucky it spread. We can’t get out.”

Behind you, Nolan coughs violently. “You don’t have to tell him everything-”

“I’m trying to get help!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me, you’re the one who-”

Tears sting in your smoke-smeared eyes. “Get down, Nolan! Crawl!”

“And what are you now, huh? You think-”

“Hey- hey!” Bucky’s voice is harsh. Urgent. “Okay. Listen to me. Cover your mouth with something - whatever you’ve got. You’re gonna stay low. Both of you. Crawl to the farthest wall from the door if you haven’t already. Do you see smoke coming through it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, coughing into your elbow. The fabric of your sweater is damp from sweat, and it stinks of fear.

“Can you block the bottom with something - towels, jacket, anything.”

“I tried. It’s still coming through. I- Bucky, I tried to put it out, like you said, I-”

“I know,” he interrupts, voice cracking slightly, dry and gentle. “I know, sweetheart. I know you tried. I’m proud of you. You did so fucking good calling me, okay? You hear me?”

“I can’t see anything,” you whisper. “It’s all smoke.”

Your hands tremble as you crawl. Nolan’s coughing has grown louder and more uneven, as though his lungs are learning how to fall apart.

“We’re coming. I’m on the truck. Just stay with me. Stay low. Try to find a corner or something near the window if you can. Don’t touch the doorknob again.”He’s obviously trying to hide the raw edge in his voice, but you hear it nonetheless.

“It’s hot.” Your voice is an ash-covered whisper.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t try to touch it again, alright? Don’t touch anything. Don’t open anything. You’re staying right where you are. You did the right thing, sweetheart. You did everything right.” He talks as though it’s a prayer. A lullaby spoken with desperation.

There’s a flurry of noise behind him. Muffled radio calls, the wailing of sirens into the wind, yelling voices.

You can picture him - knuckles white, leg bouncing, one hand pressed to his ear as if willing the sound of you to stay close.

“You’re not alone,” he emphasizes, voice thick. A rough, frantic rasp like a match scraped too many times. “We’re coming for you, sweetheart. I swear to God. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I was stupid,” you choke. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should’ve told him to go to hell.”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupts you fast, voice sharp with emotion. “You’re not stupid. Don’t ever say that. You’re not responsible for someone else losing control, you hear me?”

You nod, eyes burning now with something more than smoke.

“I just wanted to be done.”

“You will be,” he promises, his voice a storm swallowing itself. “You’re gonna walk out of there, and that chapter’s gonna stay behind. You’ll never have to see him again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Bucky,” you sob, barely holding on.

And his voice breaks when he says your name back. Not just once.

“I got you. You’re doing so well. You’re doing perfect, Y/n. I’m so proud of you. Just a little longer. We’re almost here. You just gotta hang on for me, yeah? Just try to breathe. Let me hear you breathe.”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you.

Another panicked call of your name.

“I’m here.” Your voice turned into smoke itself.

You can hear the fire truck now. A distant roar. Like a cavalry arriving on a battlefield that’s already gone to ruin.

You can hear his frantic breathing.

“Bucky, I’m scared,” you whimper.

“I know, doll. I know.” His voice is soft now, too soft, as though maybe he is crouched in the back of the truck, hunched over the phone with his head in his hand. He talks as if he could speak you safe again. “But you’re not alone, okay? And you’re doing so well. We’ll get you two out. I just need your voice, alright? Don’t hang up. I’m almost there.”

You don’t register the exact moment you drop your phone, only that you keep hearing Bucky’s voice before it slips from your hand.

“Don’t close your eyes, sweetheart- stay with me-”

The door is glowing. Glowing as though it wants to become the sun. Glowing like warning and goodbye all at once.

You taste the fire. Breathe it. Feel it coat your throat like ash-painted molasses.

Bucky’s urgent and desperate voice is only registering as a blurred cloud engulfing you.

There is a thunderous sound. A crack. A groan. Wood screaming as it splits. Metal breaking open.

Then comes light.

Blinding and orange and rolling with smoke.

A change in the air - slight and sharp and sudden.

The hot room breathes.

A gust of wind stabs inward, dragging smoke toward the shattered pane as though it’s trying to pull the panic out by its throat.

And then shouts.

Boots.

The room collapses around your vision. You are sagged against the floor. Head lulling.

People crash through the smoke. No, not just people. It’s him. Bucky. In full gear. Mask sealed to his face. Shoulders wide, body big, so big, bulked in turnout gear and panic.

You almost don’t believe it.

For a second, you think he might be something your brain cooked up to calm you down. A mirage with a radio. A hallucination in navy.

But then he says your name. Yells it. Muffled through the voice amplifier in his mask, but desperate.

You open your mouth. Try to say his name back.

But he is already lunging, crashing toward you like a storm. Suddenly he kneels. And suddenly-er you are airborne. Up. Scooped into his arms, pressed into his chest.

You feel the sound of his heartbeat before you hear it - thudding against your side, frantic, furious.

You want to tell him you’re okay, that you’re sorry, that you meant to call him under different circumstances, that you didn’t mean to worry him.

But all you can do is let your body go limp in his hold.

His jacket smells of sweat and smoke and something cleaner underneath - some sterile tang of extinguisher foam and ash and whatever this moment is turning into.

You press your forehead into the curve of his neck, where the helmet meets the collar of his gear.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart-” he keeps saying it, over and over, like a chant.

His voice is strained now. Hoarse. Desperate. Shaky. Strangled through a throat that’s trying not to break open in front of everyone. He lifts you higher against his chest and sprints, shouting orders as he crashes through the hallway.

“Clear a path!”

“Make room! Get oxygen ready!”

“She’s fading! Move!”

He holds you as though you already caught the fire. He holds you like absolution.

You drift in and out, eyes fluttering as Bucky runs through smoke-filled corridors and splintered doorways and the skeleton of someone else’s anger turned to flame.

But you still feel the shift in his arms. The way he squeezes you when you cough. How his gloved hands cup the back of your head, shielding you from debris. How he leans his body to block falling soot as he barrels toward the stairwell two at a time, breathing hard, mumbling things you can’t hear.

Or maybe they’re not for you. Maybe they’re for himself.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare go quiet on me. Hang on. Stay with me. Come on.”

Your hands curl weakly into the strap across his chest.

He bursts through the front of the building, and the world opens up - wild and wide and full of oxygen.

The roar of the crowd. The red-and-white flash of emergency lights bouncing off soot-covered brick.

Someone tries to take you from him - another firefighter, older, calm - but Bucky growls under his breath and shifts you closer, ducking his head like a shield.

“I’ve got her,” he grunts, thick and hoarse. Shaking. “I’ve got her.”

They don’t argue.

His boots only then screech to a halt when he arrives at the ambulance door and two EMTs step forward with a stretcher and an oxygen mask in hand.

He lays you down gently, so gently, as though you are made of porcelain and poems. He pulls the mask off his face and immediately goes back to touching you. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb streaking soot from your cheek. The other wrapped around your wrist, searching for your pulse.

“She’s got smoke inhalation,” Bucky barks. His voice is too loud. Too full. His hair sticks to his forehead. His cheeks are streaked with sweat and worry. “She’s conscious, but barely. I need- can I-”

One of the medics puts a hand on his shoulder, while the other cares for you. “We’ve got her. You did good, Cap.”

But when you’re wheeled into the ambulance, he steps in with you. Without a word. The medics don’t say anything. Perhaps because of his expression.

You feel his eyes on you.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” he says, low. Gutted. “I got you out.”

Your eyes find his. Somehow. You can barely keep them open. Can barely feel the oxygen mask over your face. Can barely feel his hands on you.

His breath shudders. And for a second you think he might cry.

But he just swallows, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitch.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, stay with me. You gotta stay with me.”

You try.

You really do.

But this moment does not seem to want to hold you in its arms the same way Bucky just did.

It wants to let you go.

It does.

****

Hospitals always smell like endings.

Even in the quiet, even with the windows open and the soft beep of a heart monitor keeping tempo with your breath. There’s something sterile and final about the place. A hush that doesn’t belong to any one person.

You wake slowly. Float up from the bottom of a deep, smoky ocean, lungs burning even in memory.

The world is all soft edges and clean white. The blanket draped over your legs is tucked in too neatly.

Sunlight filters through fog. Like a dream dragging its feet on the way out.

Everything aches in soft, unfamiliar places. Behind your eyes. In your throat. In your chest, where the air settles heavy, too new.

You blink against the brightness, throat sore and mouth dry, vision hazy.

He falls into your line of vision in an instant.

Sitting beside you in the room’s single chair, pulled as close to your bedside as it could go, knees wide, elbows on them. Head bowed as though he is praying or thinking or maybe both. His fingers are steepled against his mouth as though he’s been holding his breath for hours.

The gear is gone, but the exhaustion is not. He’s in a dark hoodie and sweatpants now, his hair damp, pushed back as if he ran both hands through it and forgot to fix it after.

He looks big here. Too big for the tiny chair. Too solid of all this silence. His foot is bouncing. His hands are clasped. His face is half-hidden behind a knuckle.

But he is here.

He is truly here.

You manage to whisper his name.

Your voice is hoarse and frail and hardly audible. But his head still snaps up.

And oh. The relief on his face could bring down buildings.

He is up in an instant, the chair scraping back, but he stops at the edge of your bed as though he is not sure if he can touch you. His hand hovers gently on the bed rail.

His eyes are red-rimmed. You don’t know if it comes from crying or from staying awake. There are soft bruises under them. You wonder how long he’s been here.

“Hey,” he breathes.

Your throat scrapes when you try to answer. A dry, ragged rasp. “Hey. Bucky, I-”

“Easy.” His voice softens even more. He is cooing. “Don’t try to talk too much, alright? Take it slow.”

You try to clear your throat and immediately regret it. He’s already got a cup of water in his hand, straw tucked between your lips before you can blink. You drink, slow and small sips, until the burn dulls a little.

He catches a drop of water with his thumb when it leaks over the side of your mouth.

You try to smile. It trembles at the corners. But you need to keep talking. Keep explaining. The words just fall out, messy and cracked and full of everything you feel.

“I didn’t mean for this to be when I called you.”

He stiffens, only a little. Not because he’s upset - because he’s listening too hard. Because every syllable you manage seems like something he wants to tuck into his jacket and guard with his whole life.

Pushing out a breath, you keep going. “I wanted to call you. I almost did. Before. So many times.” Your voice breaks on the tail end of it, dry and uncertain. “But I got scared. And then Nolan- he just kept calling, and I thought maybe if I just talked to him once-”

“Hey,” Bucky eases tenderly. He leans in, hand ghosting close to yours. Not quite touching yet, as though he’s afraid to ask your skin for too much. “You don’t have to explain everything right now. I told you, there’s no pressure. I wanted you to take your time.”

“No, I-” you protest, emotional. “I’m sorry, I- God, I’m so stupid, I-”

“Hey, no. Don’t.” His voice interjects you so gently you almost cry from it. “You called. That’s what matters. You called me when it counted.” He glances at your hand and touches it lightly. You let him.

You swallow. “But I-”

He shakes his head kindly. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “I don’t care when it happened. I just care that you did. That you’re here. That I got to you in time.” He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “And I swear-” he pauses, runs a hand down his jaw, seemingly trying to put himself back together. “I swear, I’ve never run so fast in my damn life.”

You lace your fingers with his. His palm is warm. His grip is careful. Asking you if this is okay. You squeeze once.

He is leaning over you, staring as though you just handed him something precious he doesn’t know how to hold.

“And next time you need someone, please don’t wait. Doesn’t have to be fire-level urgent, okay? Doesn’t have to be about him. If you need help picking fruit at the farmers market, or Wanda’s making you do one of those weird tea cleanses again, or you’re just lonely at 2 am - you call me.”

You smile. Or try to.

His smile is smaller. Sadder.

“I’m here, alright?” Bucky adds after a moment, voice rough but certain. “You’re not alone.” He takes a deep breath. There is something new in his voice now. A gentle grit. “But I’m not here to rush you. I’m not here to push. I like you. You probably already figured that out. But I want this to be whatever you need. At your pace. No pressure. No expectations. I just want you safe. I want you to breathe easy again. I want to be someone you know you can lean on. Nothing more than that, not unless you want it.”

Your breath hiccups. Your eyes sting.

He nods toward the IV in your arm. “Right now, the only thing that matters is getting you back to okay.”

You blink. Your throat is tight.

Silence, again. Soft and clean and full of feeling.

You look at him for a long time, studying the scruff on his jaw, the fine line between his brows, the way his eyes search your face as if he is still making sure you woke up.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He exhales a long breath. Blinks hard. Rubs the heel of his palm over his mouth.

“I like you, too.”

You hear his breath catch.

You say it softer. Slower. More certain. “I want you to know that. I really like you.”

His eyes are whole. With something warm and breaking wide open. You wonder if he even realizes he is holding your hand tighter now.

And you look at him as though maybe your heart’s been trying to find his this whole time.

His thumb brushes over your skin so lightly, you almost don’t feel it. But you do. Of course, you do. It sends tiny shivers running through your body. Lets your skin prickle.

“He’s not gonna come near you again,” Bucky states quietly, a little bit firm. “You don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

And you still. Your eyes go wide a tiny fraction. Because how could you have forgotten?

“Nolan.”

Something tightens behind Bucky’s eyes. Something that does not flinch but does not smile either.

You say his name again, slower this time, unsure why your lungs feel colder now. “Is he…”

“He’s okay,” Bucky affirms, but there is a jagged note to the words. “Got some burns on his hand and inhaled a lot of smoke, but nothing that won’t heal.”

He doesn’t say don’t worry but you hear it.

He also doesn’t say he deserved worse, but you hear that too.

You study Bucky’s face - how his jaw ticks, his nostrils flare ever so slightly. His posture has changed, too. Not tense exactly, but watchful. Guarded. As though he is sitting on something stretched too tight between staying soft for you and not punching a wall with his fist.

“He…” Bucky exhales and rubs a hand through his hair as though it might soothe the fire out of his voice. “He asked about you.”

That surprises you. Your lips part, but you don’t know what question you’re asking yet.

“He wanted to know if you were okay.” Bucky pauses. Looks away, just for a second, as though he is chewing on something bitter. “Said he didn’t mean for it to go that far. That he was just mad. That it was a mistake.”

The words hang in the air like smoke without a source.

You stare at the blanket pulled up to your ribs. You don’t know what you’re feeling. Grief, maybe. Not for Nolan. For the version of yourself that still picks up when he calls.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Heavily. You don’t know why. Maybe just for existing in this mess. For dragging Bucky into it. For not seeing it all coming sooner.

“You don’t owe anyone an apology,” Bucky grounds out, and this time his voice is sharper. A crackle of heat under the words. “He doesn’t get to hurt you and then feel bad about it after the fact. He could’ve killed you.”

You stare at him.

And he softens.

A little. A blink. A breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head and looking down at his boots. “I didn’t mean to snap. Just-” He rubs the back of his neck. His face twists into something pained. “I rushed into that apartment and saw you on the floor and-” His voice breaks a little and comes back shaky. “It was like time stopped. Didn’t even see anything else. Just you.”

Silence swells again, full of unsaid things and tight lungs and hearts pounding.

You squeeze his hand gently.

And then the door clicks open.

Wanda peeks in first, her hair a frizzed halo, cheeks blotchy, eyes wide and wet. Natasha follows behind, chin set, jaw tight. She looks composed, but you know she isn’t.

“You’re awake,” Wanda sighs, already by your side, reaching for your other hand. “God, I’m gonna cry again-”

“You look like hell,” Natasha deadpans. But she is smiling. Just barely.

You smile back. It takes effort. But it’s true.

Bucky keeps watching you as though he is afraid to blink. As though he doesn’t want to miss a second more of you breathing.

And even though your chest still hurts and your throat stings and you feel as though your world just burned down another time, there is something brightening in your heart.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Wanda chastises weakly, adjusting your blanket, and giving you the gentlest kiss on your forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”

And you feel that crater inside you - the one the smoke didn’t touch. The one carved out by fear. By how close it all had been.

“I didn’t mean-”

“We know, dummy,” Natasha cuts in gently, and it’s not an accusation. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause. You just breathe slowly. Staring at the ceiling.

“God, I swear,” Wanda mutters, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against your wrist. “If I ever see that bastard again…”

Natasha snorts, her voice tilting toward something sly. “I’m sure your personal guardian here will take care of him. Should’ve seen him when the paramedics mentioned Nolan.”

Bucky, beside you, goes very still.

You feel his hand twitch against yours. He’s still holding it. Hadn’t let go.

He hasn’t said anything since the girls came in.

Now he looks like stone. His gaze flicks away.

You can feel the tension building in his chest - his breath shallower, his jaw clenched. His thumb presses slightly harder against your palm, as though the thought of your ex walking around freely is the worst thing he’s ever had to picture.

“No worries, guys,” you say and even the thought of his name is foul in your mind. “I’m done with him.”

You lift your eyes to Bucky. It’s not even intentional. You just have to look at him. Maybe you need him to hear it clearly. Need to make sure he heard it.

His eyes find yours. Dark and blue and lit up with something rougher than hope. Something hotter than worry.

His mouth tilts into something relieved. And you think, maybe, even a little bashful. As though he didn’t expect to be included in this part. As though it is hitting him slowly, that he is not a stranger in your orbit anymore.

And something in him seems to let go - not all at once. But in pieces. Like melting ice, cracking and softening and spilling into warmer water.

He nods. Small. Doesn’t seem able to speak.

But his hand in yours says everything.

Wanda and Natasha both go quiet. Watching him. Watching you. Watching this. This thing happening between you.

Outside the window, the sun climbs a little higher into the sky.

And he keeps looking.

Keeps absorbing.

Keeps memorizing.

Just like you.

“Heroes are ordinary people who make themselves extraordinary.”

- Gerard Way

Part One

i feel so anxious right now and i don't know why and i hate it

hes so endearing i cant

sᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ

Pairing | Matt Boldy x afab!reader Summary | (Boston College, fluff) | Matt had been in her orbit since they were freshmen, all day, every day. Until one night, when three words shifted everything. Authors Note | First ever Matt Boldy piece, don’t hurt me, I’m learning the ropes of him <3 Thank you, Cappy for beta reading this!!

She leaned her back against his bedframe, listening to the muffled music from the party below but taking a long observation of Matt’s room. She’d never properly had a look, not noticing the photos on his wall, the abandoned clothes in his hamper, the friendship bracelets and trinkets she’d given him on his desk. It was peaceful, a hiding place. His place of solitude. 

But she was far from peaceful. Her eyes hung heavy and the dread of going back downstairs and through the crowds loomed over her shoulders like an anchor. Parties were only so much fun for a while until the energy started draining and all y/n felt like doing was curling up under the sheets and falling asleep. 

The door opened a crack, and she sat up straight but sunk back down upon seeing Matt’s head peek in, followed by his body and closing the door behind him. He kicked his shoes off and sat next to her, shoulder to shoulder, tilting his head down to meet her eyes and smiling warmly. His whole presence was inviting and comforting, her shoulders feeling lighter as their limbs pressed into one another. 

“So, this is where you’re hiding, I’ve been looking for you. You okay?” He asked, his eyebrows raising with worry, face nervously close to hers. She never admitted it to anyone, but she loved the nasally undertones to his voice, something about how it was naturally rumbly and low managed to set little sparks in her chest alight.

“Sorry for intruding, I just needed somewhere quiet…” Her eyes searched his and she smiled. “I’m okay, just a bit tired and overwhelmed now.”

Matt took a deep breath and chuckled, unable to contain it when she made him feel so fluttery and giddy all the time. His heart found a slow pace again, only hammering when he thought he’d lost her downstairs, unable to find her hanging around their usual spots and he feared he’d been ditched. The relief to find her in his room was nothing hockey could ever compare to but all he wanted was to pull her close and cuddle until the sun came up. But he couldn’t risk that jump - they were friends first.

“Hey, it’s cool. Come here whenever you want, I don’t mind.” He nudged her shoulder with his lightly, cherishing the giggle she released as his chest swelled at how calming to his ears it was, the song he could listen to forever.

Matt always had this way to her heart. He had the right words, and the right thoughts and read her like a book. And she adored him. Painfully adored him to the extent that she was at his beckoning call, and she knew he was like her shadow too. Matt had enamoured her, to the pits of her heart and that’s what made her persistently nervous whenever he was in her proximity.  

“Sounds like you want me in your room more, Matty. Got those dirty fantasies going on, huh?” She smiled and poked his chest playfully, pushing aside her own fantasies for once and mirroring his grin.

“Well, no, that’s not what I meant- I mean I wouldn’t mind- Nevermind.” He fumbled over his words with rosy cheeks, his attempt to defend his honour ending in defeat when he hid his face in his hands. 

With the tenderness her fingers wrapped around his wrists, his muscles flinched upon the contact, y/n slowly pulled his hands away and tilted his head back to look at her.

She brushed strands of his hair away from his face and softly murmured. “I’m teasing, you’re just cute when you’re flustered. Thanks.” 

Her hands dropped to her lap, his following, but his hand edged closer to her thighs while never breaking eye contact. If her nerves weren’t raging as they were before, they stirred violently in her stomach at the sudden shift, her heart thrumming in her ears and the insatiable urge to grab him by the t-shirt and kiss him into the mattress more consuming than ever. Their faces inched closer, smiles dropping feeling their breaths tangled.

“I can take you home if you want…ooor you can…” Matt’s voice rumbled in his chest quietly, eyes flickering to her lap as his fingers crept closer and then back at her eyes. He hesitated, licking his lips and swallowing.

She only broke his gaze when his fingers laced with hers, warmth spreading through her palm and the heavy weight on her shoulders lifting completely, his affection giving her a floaty feeling that incited a fuzzy excitement in her stomach. 

He finished his sentence in a whisper, squeezing her hand with gentle pressure. “...stay with me?”

“I’d love to stay.” She gave a small smile. “Why were you looking for me? All your friends are down there.”

His hands felt sweaty, worryingly sweaty since she was holding it as well and a perfectly coherent sentence in his head blurted out in a flustered panic. “You’re also my friend, my best friend, actually. Why wouldn’t I wanna be with you? That’s what best friends do, they-”

It was an opportunity, an opening, and she exhaled deeply. The pink dusting over his cheeks and sweaty palms gave her all the motivation she needed to spit the words stuck on her tongue out. Adrenaline coursing and enough time between them to hold memories to support his intentions - the hand holding, the quality time, the adoration in his eyes and the bumbling nerves whenever they sat close - were not one of a friend.  

“Am I though?” She asked abruptly, his eyes widening slightly as his jaw faltered, finding the words.

“-No…no, you’re more than that.” He breathed, releasing her hand and cupping her cheeks, closing the small space between them with a long-awaited and yearning kiss. 

She threaded her fingers through the hairs on his nape, pressing herself close to his body letting the anxieties free from her, mind emptying into a bliss where she bathed in his soft hums vibrating against her lips as they moved with hers languidly. His hands glided from her face down her chest, stopping at her waist to pull her onto his lap, a hand on either of her thighs that straddled him before caressing their way back to the curves of her midriff. The feeling bursting between them felt ecstatic like pieces of their puzzle finally fell into place.

[Masterlist] [Requests CLOSED]

2025 © STAR2FISHMEG All rights reserved - do not plagiarise/copy, translate, or repost any of my works. Please let me know if you notice that any of these have been done to my work.

Banners & dividers belong to me

why are all bucky barnes fics tagged sebastian stan x reader. i hate it. sometimes i don’t wanna read that!! i wanna read sebastian stan and i hate it and it’s so annoying

Why is it so hard for people to use tags correctly??

Why are you tagging your fics with character x oc as character x reader it’s so god damn annoying! I’m not gonna read your fic just bc you used the tag!! If I wanted to read about character x oc I would go in that tag to find it.

It’s really not that hard to tag things correctly so please do that. It’s so hard to find the fics you want to read when the tag used to find them are filled with fics that has nothing to do with it.

This also gos for when you tag A x B when the fic isn’t about those characters.

my dad and flew with the lead singer of aerosmith and i rode in an elevator with the entirety of lovejoy (it was in 2023 dont cancel me)

bringing back this video for no reason

what if the reason we’re collectively so fond of isack is because we sense he’s a weed smoking lesbian in another life