Tears ARE Being Shed

absolutely devastating idk what to say but so SO SO GOOD

afterglow ⛐ 𝐈𝐇𝟔

he isn’t fighting to destroy. he’s fighting to give.

ꔮ starring: underground fighter!isack x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 2.5k. ꔮ includes: romance, hurt/comfort. alternate universe: non-f1; descriptions of a fight, blood, injuries. isack is a loverboy, reader is a softie, established relationship e.g. childhood best friends -> lovers, google translated french. title is from taylor swift's song of the same name. ꔮ commentary box: listen. listen. i know i said i would stick to the WIPs i currently have, but i've been unable to function with this idea on my mind. i fully blame @binisainz. this is a short one for now; a bit of a pulse check, i guess, to see if people like this concept/couple/verse? let me know! 🥊 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The crowd is already howling when Isack ducks through the curtains.

It smells like metal and spit back here. Concrete floor slick with old sweat, the low throb of bass rattling his teeth.

All he can think about is you. How you kissed his cheek this morning, barely awake, murmuring something about the cold creeping through the windows. How you curled back into the blanket like a cat, trusting him to go out and do what he always does.

He told you he had errands. That was technically true.

Now, the ring glares under hot lights. A blood-stained mat. Chain-link fence catching every glare like it’s daring someone to look away. The other guy is already inside—tattoos down his arms, jumping on the spot like he’s itching for pain. Isack doesn’t care. Not about the guy. Not about the noise.

He cares about the little shop off Rue de la Liberté, where he saw the secondhand necklace with the gold locket you’d probably never buy for yourself. He cares about the look you’d give him if he managed to hand it to you without a scratch on his face.

He shrugs off his jacket. Rolls his wrists. Breathes in once, steady. His coach, Christian, says something, but it all comes out muffled. His focus has tunneled. There is only the sound of your voice in his memory, bright and impossible: Promise me you won’t get hurt.

Isack apologizes in his head before stepping into the ring.

The cage door shuts with a clang that sounds like punctuation. The other guy smirks. Isack doesn’t flinch.

You’re not here. He would never make you watch, never want you to be in the audience for any of his matches. This is his world. This den of debauchery, this last resort for the desperate. 

But you’re everywhere else. In every breath Isack pulls in through his nose, trying to stay calm. In the way he keeps his stance low, remembering how you once massaged his shoulder after a bad hit. In the fury that doesn’t quite come, because he isn’t fighting to destroy.

He’s fighting to give.

The bell rings.

Fists fly. 

Somewhere in the blur of muscle and motion, he thinks of your laugh. He thinks of the way you once patched his knuckles with ointment and bandages shaped like stars. He thinks of your birthday, only four days away, and how maybe he can afford the locket. Maybe even a cake.

He takes a punch. Spits blood. Laughs.

For the first time in a long while, he has something worth bleeding for.

Isack fights like he always does. Scrappy, sharp, more heart than polish. He’s not as slick as Ollie or as ruthless as Kimi, but he’s reliable in a way people like to bet on. His jabs are fast, his footwork clean, and when he takes a hit, he doesn’t crumble. He recalibrates. Keeps going.

Tonight, he weathers two solid punches to the ribs. Another jab hooks into his jaw and sends stars skittering behind his eyes. Nonetheless, Isack comes back swinging. Left, right, then a knee when his opponent drops his guard. The other guy staggers. The crowd screams.

Isack finishes it clean. A final punch, heavy and sure. The ref pulls him back. It’s over.

His chest heaves. His mouth tastes like rust. But he’s still standing.

Backstage, Christian is already waiting.

“Nice work,” the manager says, all slick grin and fake praise. He hands Isack a rolled-up wad of euros. Lighter than usual.

Isack counts quick, frowns. “This isn’t the full cut,” he grumbles. 

Christian shrugs, too casual. “You got hit too much. Should’ve made it cleaner. Odds dipped in the third round.”

“That’s not—”

“You want the cash or not?” Christian leans in close, voice cold. “Because I can find someone else who wants it more.”

Isack’s jaw tightens. For a second, he sees himself saying no. Walking away. Then he thinks of you, the locket, your birthday.

He pockets the money.

The fluorescent lights make his bruises look worse than they are. He’ll ice the ribs when he gets home. The cut on his jaw isn’t deep. Nothing you’ll see unless he smiles too wide.

Isack walks home instead of taking the bus. It’s a ditch effort to have a bit more money to spend on you. He does mental math the entire way, computing how much he’ll need to get you everything he wants you to have. 

The apartment is peaceful when he lets himself in.

He toes off his shoes gently, careful not to make noise. The hallway is warm, dimly lit by the flicker of your favorite candle on the kitchen counter. It smells like vanilla and something soft beneath it—home, he thinks. It smells like home.

You’re curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, legs tucked underneath you. There’s a book open in your lap, but you’re not reading. The moment he steps in, you’re already looking up.

“Salut,” you say, voice soft but not accusing. “You’re late.”

Isack manages a smile. “Des petites choses à faire,” he murmurs. Little things to do.

You narrow your eyes. For a second, he thinks he’s caught. 

Instead, you shift, patting the cushion beside you. He crosses the room slowly, sitting beside you with practiced ease. Not too stiff, not too slow. He’s done this before—hidden bruises, concealed aches. You press your cheek to his shoulder, humming contentedly.

“I was thinking,” you say lightly, “for my birthday, maybe we go somewhere. Just us. Nothing big. Maybe that little town you always talk about with the old cinema and the broken carousel.”

Isack chuckles and immediately regrets it.

A sharp pain blooms across his ribs. He tries to play it off, but he tenses just slightly. Just enough.

You pull back instantly. “What was that?” you ask, eyes scanning his face. “Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me, Isack.”

You’re already pushing back your blanket, rising to your feet. He doesn’t stop you when you disappear into the bathroom and return with the first aid kit. There’s a gentle fury in the way you set it down. A kind of heartbreak.

“Shirt off,” you say.

He hesitates. “It’s not that bad.”

“Shirt. Off.”

He sighs, peeling the fabric over his head. The bruise is already forming across his ribs—angry, purple, edged in red. Your eyes spark as you kneel beside him.

“Mon pauvre,” you whisper, dabbing antiseptic across the scrape on his side. He flinches slightly, but doesn’t complain.

“You always come back like this,” you go on. “And you always say you’re fine.”

He watches you work, your touch careful, your brow furrowed in concentration. The only person who’s ever looked at him like he was breakable. You sound weary, and for a moment, it sparks something like concern in him. 

Would this be the night? Would this be the evening you decide enough is enough; you can’t be with someone as battered and bruised and addicted to the thrill as Isack? 

“I just wanted to get you something nice,” he says quietly, trying not to give too much of his plans away. 

You pause.

“Mon amour,” you whisper, lifting your eyes to his. “I don’t need anything you have to bleed for.”

He says nothing. Just takes your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Too late, mon ange,” he says, voice rough. “You’re already everything I’d fight for.”

It had started years and years ago, in the courtyard with the cracked pavement and a broken swing.

You were nine, maybe ten. The older kids had cornered you behind the bike racks, calling you names that stuck like burrs. Isack heard them before he saw you. Your voice was tight and trying not to tremble. He didn’t say anything. 

He just ran at the tallest one, fists flying with all the messy fury of a child who couldn’t stand to see you cry.

He came home with a split lip and a sprained wrist. His mother yelled. Yours baked him cookies. You wouldn’t stop looking at him like he’d hung the moon. He never forgot that.

The fights got cleaner over the years. Less wild, more measured. He trained in secret at first, using borrowed gloves and YouTube videos on his cracked phone. He said it was for self-defense. Everyone knew better. He did it for you.

And now, he still fights.

Not for playground pride, but for rent. For groceries. For birthdays and futures you both pretend to not talk about yet.

He fights so you won’t have to.

But tonight, the bathroom door is cracked open. You’re brushing your teeth in silence; he sees the way your shoulders shake, just barely. The little sniff you try to hide behind a mouthful of foam.

He leans in the doorway, watching for a moment. You blink rapidly at your reflection, fighting tears, trying to smile like it’s nothing. It breaks him.

He steps forward without a word, wraps his arms around you from behind. His chest presses warm against your back. You freeze for a second, toothbrush paused in midair.

“Chérie,” he murmurs against your temple. “Tu pleures.” 

Darling, you’re crying. 

You shake your head.

He hums, unconvinced. “Even your shoulders look sad.”

You let out a wet, reluctant laugh, and he feels your spine soften against his chest. “Want to tell me?” he prompts.

You spit out the toothpaste, rinse, and lean both palms on the sink. “It just… got a bit heavy today,” you say, watching Isack through the mirror. “Everything. You. Money. I don’t know.”

He rests his chin on your shoulder, swaying the two of you gently. “I know. But we’ll be alright, mon ange. You and me, always.”

Your eyes meet his in the mirror. Red-rimmed but warm. He presses a kiss behind your ear. “No one gets to hurt you, not even life. Compris?” he hums. 

You nod, wiping your cheek. “Compris.”

He hugs you tighter.

In the mirror, you both look a little ridiculous. Tired and young and too soft for this world. But you also look like something solid. Something that doesn’t break.

The sheets are cool against your skin as the two of you slide into bed. You shift to make space, and Isack follows, slower, careful with the bruises he hasn’t admitted to. The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the streetlamp outside your window. There’s something about this hour that strips everything down. Even him.

Here, he isn’t the fighter people bet on. He’s not the boy who threw punches for pride or the man who bleeds to make rent.

He’s just your Isack. 

He curls behind you, one arm draping over your waist, his nose pressed into the crook of your neck. You can feel the tension still tucked in his shoulders, the thoughts still churning behind his silence.

You reach back, threading your fingers through his. “You’re thinking about taking another fight.”

He hesitates. Breathes in deep. “Maybe. Just—”

“No.”

You turn to face him fully, eyes shining even in the dark. “I mean it, amour. I don’t want anything for my birthday if it means watching you come home like this.”

He tries to protest, but you cut him off with a hand on his chest.

“You’re enough. Just you. In one piece.”

The silence that follows is thick. He stares at the ceiling like it might give him another way forward. But then he looks at you and sees the worry still lingering around your mouth, the exhaustion clinging to your frame. He thinks of all the times you’ve cried in the bathroom, thinks of the first aid kit that has to get restocked every couple of months. 

He sighs, presses a kiss to your forehead, decides to give you this. 

“D’accord,” he whispers. Alright. “No fight. Not for your birthday.”

You smile, triumphant and relieved all at once, and reward him with a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another. And another. His breath catches when you kiss the tender spot along his jaw, just above the bruise.

He chuckles under his breath. “You always win,” he grumbles, trying and failing to sound upset about it. 

“Only when it matters,” you say before going in to press your lips against his. 

He pulls you close, tucks you into him like a secret, and lets his guard fall entirely. He falls asleep to you softening all of his edges. Chaste kisses, breathless giggles, gentle touches. Isack’s last thought before slipping out of consciousness is that he could live a thousand lifetimes and probably still not deserve you. 

He dreams that night.

You’re laughing in the sun, barefoot in some place he can’t name. Your arms are outstretched, your hair whipped by the wind. You call his name like it’s always meant to belong to you.

He chases after you, light-footed, weightless. The sky is a soft blue. The kind that exists only in dreams. His heart thumps, thumps, thumps in his chest the way only you can make it beat, adrenaline and fighting be damned. 

The dream shifts. 

It bleeds from the sunlight to the darkness, from the sunny outside to your shared apartment. You’re crying. Not loudly, not messily—soundless tears, falling as you stand in a crumbling kitchen with a bill in one hand and nothing in the fridge. He calls for you. You don’t hear him.

He opens the leather wallet you got him for his seventeenth birthday. It’s empty. His hands are bruised, bloodied. His knuckles won’t stop bleeding.

He cannot help you. He cannot reach you. He doesn’t deserve—

Isack wakes with a start.

The bedroom is still dark, but it feels smaller, suffocating. His heart beats in the cage of his ribs like it wants to escape. Beside him, you’re curled against his chest, breathing steady, your hand resting gently at his sternum.

He blinks up at the ceiling, jaw tight.

You don’t stir when he carefully slips out of bed. You don’t feel the draft when he shrugs on a hoodie, tugs jeans over legs that still ache. You don’t hear the pen scratch against paper as he writes, just three words:

Running errands, amour.

He places the note on the nightstand. Stares at it longer than he needs to. Then he’s gone.

The hallway is colder than he remembers. The elevator groans.

Outside, dawn bleeds into the horizon. A light wind stings his face as he pulls out his phone. Fingers hover, hesitate, then dial.

It rings once. Twice. Then:

“Christian.” 

Isack swallows hard. “Give me one more match.”

Silence.

Then, a laugh, low and knowing. “Just one?” 

“Just one. That’s it.”

“Same rules. Same cut. You in or not?”

Isack looks back up at the apartment window.

You’re up there, dreaming still. Safe—for now. Isack thinks of the locket, of cake, of the town you want to visit and the food in the refrigerator. 

He thinks of you. He’s always thinking of you. 

“I’m in,” Isack breathes.

The line goes dead. ⛐

Godzilla in Montreal!

Tag list: @st-leclerc @rubywingsracing @saviour-of-lord @three-days-time @the-wall-is-my-goal @albonoooo @ch3rubd0lls @brawngp2009 @korolrezni-nikolai @d00dlespng @beenucks @mintraindrop @march32nd

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

Guys I was hit with inspiration at 4am this morning while severely sleep deprived (and also lowkey sick) <33

So, enjoy my creation— the Quinnmp (the Quinn blimp)

can we like score or smth man... or kill the panthers

hello world (tumblr),

this is my first proper post on here and i have decided to use this as a little blog for myself!!

now, i do have interests. so here are the lists of things you WILL find me yapping about:

matt rempe (don’t get me startedddd bro!)

utah hockey club i suppose, NOT cause im in love with miachel kesselring (i am but that’s beside the point) but because utah!

f1 (fav drivers are lando norris and i have new found love for gabriel bortoleto)

mick schumacher. i am in love with him. we are actually married, he just doesn’t know it yet 🥰

f1 academy (fav drivers are chloe chambers (🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🦅🦅🦅) and lia block! and tina hausman (but in like a i admire her greatly type way))

unfortunately that is the extent of my hyper fixations as of late, however i may use this as a book log so i talk about what books im reading atm!

to my two mutuals who follow me just cause i stalk their accounts; i love both of you and your work so much!!!

- 47chickens (i had chickens when i made this and i love mick)

scarlet johannson did not spend an entire decade fighting tooth and nail to make natasha into an actual character instead of the sex object writers wanted her to be while also having to endure the most vile, misogynistic questions during press tours for people to now disrespect her legacy because yelena is 'better'. the only reason why that is, is because of everything scarlet went through. natasha singlehandedly paved the way for every other female superhero in the mcu and don't you forget that

what are we even supposed to do with wrc? we all know those people are not governable

ahhhhh!!! this was so good! i have a question, did you research fire tips for this? cause i was thinking that for the whole p a s s part and just thought it was funny

All up in Flames

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You just want your toxic ex-boyfriend’s things to stop haunting your apartment. So you let your friends lit the match. But then the sirens come, and with them Bucky Barnes, who puts out more than just the flames.

Word Count: 9.4k

Warning: destruction of personal property; toxic relationship themes (not Bucky); mentions of an ex-partner; anxiety symptoms; fire; consequences of own actions; reader’s ex is an oc; mentions of ghosting and manipulation; Wanda, Natasha and the Reader are roommates

Author’s Note: I'm not sure how this started, but I felt a strong urge to indulge my unexpected obsession with Bucky as a firefighter. This is ever so slightly inspired by a scene from the series friends. There is an, although fluffy, but also really angsty second part coming up to this in the next few days. The writing part is complete, but I still need to finish some editing. In the meantime, I would love to hear what you think. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part two

Masterlist

You are not okay.

You are so far from okay that if you sent a postcard to okay it would get lost in transit, eaten by a dog, and then set on fire.

Which sounds stupid. But that’s about the luck you are blessed with.

The sun is setting and it might be doing you a favor with that. Spilling soft gold across the city skyline, painting your apartment’s tiny rooftop garden in a glow so warm and gentle it almost feels like forgiveness.

But you’re not in the mood for forgiveness.

You are in the mood for revenge. The emotional, irrational, wonderfully dramatic kind. The kind that smells of smoke and fury and the remnants of a man who once claimed to love you but couldn’t even spell commitment if it came with a free fantasy football draft.

Nolan Aspey. Even his name is a rotting corpse in your mind.

You’re sitting on an old beanbag chair shaped like a strawberry. It squelches when you move. You suspect it might be leaking. You don’t care. Your body is wrapped in a bathrobe that isn’t yours. It’s Natasha’s. It’s also silk, red, and wildly inappropriate for rooftop lounging in May. Still, she insisted. Said heartbreak demands drama.

To your right is Wanda, perched on a rusted garden chair stolen from the community center’s Zumba class. She’s nursing a glass of something suspiciously green and swirling it as though it’s a portion, legs crossed, eyes twinkling with mischief. Her nails are black and so is her soul. You love her for it.

To your left is Natasha, preparing your small setup. She’s wearing aviator sunglasses even though the sun is barely hanging onto the sky, and you’re sure she’s doing it for the aesthetic.

You stare at the setup. There is a bottle of wine - half full, or half empty, depending on whether you’re crying or screaming at any given moment - and a Bluetooth speaker playing a playlist titled Sad Bitch Anthems Vol. 1

You don’t feel like a bitch, though. You feel more like 73% pathetic and 27% rage.

Because in front of you, next to the trash can Natasha is placing - on a cracked terracotta platter that used to house a very unfortunate basil plant - is the pile.

Your ex-boyfriend’s stuff. A pile of heartbreak. The skeletal remains of your relationship.

One hoodie that still holds traces of his cologne - a scent that haunts your dreams and also your laundry hamper. Four concert tickets from that indie band he dragged you to. Two dozen Polaroids of smiles that now feel counterfeit. A necklace he gave you from a kiosk in the mall and claimed was real moonstone but it was plastic, who would have guessed. A series of agonizingly handwritten love letters he sent you after ghosting you for a week. A book you lent him that he never returned, except now it’s water-damaged and somehow sticky. You don’t want to ask why. And a mug that says Boss Man.

You’ve always hated that mug.

You stare at the pile and the pile stares back.

“Okay,” Natasha starts, stretching the word out and flicking open a Zippo lighter with a casually pleasing look. “Let’s set this bitch ablaze.”

“I don’t know,” you hesitate, like a woman who knows this is a terrible idea and is about to do this anyway. “Is this even legal?”

“Is heartbreak legal?” Wanda asks dramatically, putting on oven mitts and holding a fire extinguisher as though it’s a designer clutch. “Is betrayal legal? Is gaslighting-”

“We get it,” you cut in quickly. “He sucked.”

“Oh he did more than suck,” Natasha exclaims, crouching beside the metal trash bin. “He emotionally vaporized you.”

“And that’s why we’re liberating his soul,” Wanda nods solemnly, her Sokovian accent making everything sound like a funeral dirge or a hex. “With fire.”

“Alright, you freaks,” you chuckle a little weakly, something tugging at your chest. “I just- I feel like we should say something,” you continue, voice low. As though you’re standing over a grave.

Wanda lifts an eyebrow. “An eulogy?”

Natasha, already about to strike the match, snorts. “A spell, more like.”

You ignore them. Or try to.

You reach down, pick up the hoodie. Hold it in your hands as though it still is something important to you. You hate that. And it’s ridiculous because he once wore this while spilling bean dip all over your white couch and didn’t even apologize.

Still, you hesitate.

“I mean,” you go on, voice small, “is this crazy? Like, should I be processing this more healthily?”

Natasha tosses the match into the bowl with all the ceremony of a seasoned arsonist. “This is healthy,” she says lowly. “You’re purging. This is emotional detox.”

Wanda nods. “Also, we brought marshmallows.”

You stare.

She lifts a grocery bag. “In case the fire gets big enough.”

You want to protest. To say something sensible. Something like, this surely is illegal, or this is definitely going to attract attention, or rooftop gardens are not structurally designed for bonfires. But instead, you sigh. Pick up one of the letters. Hold it above the flames that are just beginning to flicker.

“I hope he can feel this from wherever he’s ghosting people now.”

The paper catches as though it was waiting for this moment. As though it has always wanted to be free of the nonsense inked into it.

Wanda claps softly. “To ashes.”

“To cleansing,” Natasha adds, sipping her wine while watching you in satisfaction.

You pick up the mug next. Look at it one last time, the painted letters mocking you with their ceramic certainty. Then you chuck it into the trash can. The sound it makes - crack, splinter, dead - is gratifying in a way therapy can’t afford to be.

Your therapist would say this is unhealthy.

Your landlord would say this is grounds for eviction.

Your heart says burn all of it to ashes.

You sit back. Watch as the fire grows bolder, licking up the fabric of his old hoodie. The smoke rises in ribbons, curling around the string lights above and the half-dead succulents in your rooftop sanctuary.

The flames kill fabric, memories, and lies. For a few seconds, it’s cathartic.

You feel free, weirdly, relaxing in your seat. Powerful. Slightly unhinged.

Wanda lets out a feral scream and throws in a pair of his socks.

Natasha sips wine straight from the bottle, smirking.

You’re laughing. Or crying. Or both.

Then there is a crackle.

A pop.

“Is it supposed to make that sound?” Wanda asks, a little too casually.

Natasha shades her eyes with her hand. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you repeat. There’s dread in your voice. A sweet, rising note of oh no I didn’t sign up for actual consequences.

“The candle wax spilled,” Natasha states, calm.

“Why was there wax?” you ask, less calm.

“I thought it would smell nice. Vanilla coconut. Seasonal.”

Wanda leans forward. “Um.”

The fire gets bigger.

It gets way bigger.

The flames lap - ever so enthusiastically - at the rim of the metal bin and start talking to the wind and now the wind is flirting back and suddenly this has escalated into something biblical.

“Uh,” you let out.

“Don’t panic,” Wanda says, panicking.

“I am panicking,” you shout, slapping at a spark that just landed on your blanket as though it’s a bug from hell.

Natasha grabs the fire extinguisher from Wanda after she only fumbles around with the handle.

Wanda holds out her wine as though it might help.

You just stare at the roaring column of flame that used to be your dignity and think you should have just blocked Nolan like a normal person.

“Should I call someone?”

“I mean,” Natasha says, still somewhat calm, brushing ash from her robe, “probably-”

Wanda does it for you.

You hear her muttering into her phone, giving your apartment number like it’s a confession while fanning the smoke with a pizza box.

And you sit there with that sinking, desperate feeling that comes only from realizing you made a terrible life choice, and you’re about to pay for it in paperwork and possibly a visit from the landlord.

The air is full of smoke and regret and singed hoodie.

At least his cologne no longer stings in your nose.

You fan the flames uselessly with a throw pillow and silently pray the neighbors of you three are too busy binge-watching reality TV to notice that the building might be on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

All you wanted was to burn some memories. Some manipulative words. A tiny, hoodie-shaped piece that saw you cry on two separate birthdays. The hoodie that watched you fall asleep restlessly on couches that weren’t yours. The hoodie he left behind as though it meant nothing, as though you meant nothing.

So now you are holding a pillow with shaking hands and a mouthful of second guesses, standing over a metal bin on your rooftop, trying not to make eye contact with the fire as it gets uglier.

And Natasha doesn’t seem to know how to use a fire extinguisher either, bits of foam leaving it, like tiny sprinkles.

You try to help with your blanket. The one with the flowers on it.

They start faintly.

The sirens.

Growing louder.

Like judgment. Or fate. Or the consequences of impulsively burning your romantic history without a permit.

That sound, loud and authoritative and promising rescue, bounces off the buildings and down alleyways like a soundtrack written just for your mental breakdown.

Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm starts wailing as though even it can’t handle the drama.

You hear the brakes of the fire truck before you see it. Hear the way they hiss and groan against the street as though the truck is just as tired of cleaning up after emotionally unstable civilians as you are of being one.

You lean over the ledge of the roof, peering down like Rapunzel mid-crisis, and there it is.

Big. Red. Serious.

Three firemen step out. Their silhouettes are backlit by flashing lights. You feel, absurdly, as though you’re in a heist film. Or a rom-com. Or a public service announcement.

One of them is talking into a radio.

One of them is already unloading equipment.

And one of them is looking up.

At you.

He squints. Cocks his head slightly. Takes you in.

A moment later, they’re clomping up the stairs, boots loud against the old steel.

The door to the rooftop bursts open.

You are trying very hard to look like someone who has not created a situation requiring professional intervention. But you know it’s not working.

You expect seriousness. Gruffness and unamused men, middle-aged with a mustache and a strong opinion on smoke detectors.

But the men walking onto your rooftop are none of that.

There is a blond one. Tall. Built like the world’s most polite oak tree.

Another one is smiling. Smirking. Radiating fun uncle energy despite the full turnout gear.

And the last one. He’s tall and broad and also wears the full gear - helmet tucked under one arm, soot-smudged gloves on the other - and still, he manages to look as though he walked off the set of a calendar shoot titled America’s Hottest Emergency. He’s the one who looked up at you from below.

“Evening, ladies,” he says, voice low and a little raspy, as though he chews gravel for breakfast but politely wipes his mouth after.

His eyes are blue. Clear. Kind.

His gear fits him as though it was pressed in heaven.

He’s calm. Collected. He glances once at the smoking bin, then at Natasha holding a fire extinguisher as though it might double as a weapon, then back at you.

“This the source?”

His voice is deep and even and somehow gentle. He gestures toward the bin, that’s now doing its best impersonation of a forge. The fire’s down to a few stubborn flames now, black smoke rising into the sky.

“Yes,” you answer, after what is definitely too long a pause.

His name tag says Barnes.

His uniform is clean and neat and slightly smudged at the knees. His hands are gloved. His expression is unreadable.

“We take it from here,” says the blond with the tag Rogers, already moving toward the bin.

“We’ve got a call about open flame, potential spread. You ladies okay?” Barnes speaks up again.

You open your mouth.

Wanda opens her mouth.

Natasha gets there first.

“It was controlled.”

He raises an eyebrow. Glances at the still-smoldering hoodie, the wine, the melted candle that now looks as though it’s auditioning for a horror movie.

“It was semi-controlled,” she clarifies.

Barnes exchanges a glance with his colleague, the one dousing the final embers. The patch on his jacket says Wilson.

“Uh-huh,” he simply lets out, though there is a hint of amusement in his tone. He doesn’t laugh. But his eyes sparkle as though he wants to.

You want the ground to open up and swallow you. You want to disappear, evaporate into smoke like the hoodie, the letters, the relationship, your pride.

You clear your throat.

Barnes already turns back to you. And oh. Oh.

His intense gaze is doing things to you.

And it doesn’t help that your face probably is covered in soot and existential shame.

“Just out of curiosity,” Bucky says slowly, a small tug at the corner of his mouth. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

Natasha folds her arms.

“Therapy,” she responds, as though it’s obvious. “We were doing therapy.”

“With fire?” Wilson chimes in, skeptical and mildly delighted.

“Had a rough night,” Wanda offers suddenly. “Her ex. Real piece of work.”

You inhale sharply. “Wanda,” you warn, wobbling with the effort to appear dignified while wearing fuzzy socks and an aggressively red bathrobe that’s slowly coming untied.

“No, he was,” she insists. “He lied. Manipulated her. Ghosted her after a year of dating. Said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, for commitment, and whatnot, and then got engaged. Two weeks later. To someone who doesn’t even like dogs.”

You see Barnes wince.

“Damn,” Wilson lets out.

You close your eyes for a moment.

The rooftop is very still, save for the hiss of water on ashes.

Barnes doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at you. Measures you.

“That’s rough.” His voice comes low. Even. However, there is more to it.

You nod once. You’re not sure what else to say.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. He looks as though he wants to say something else. Something a little softer. But the blond speaks up.

“Next time you feel like getting rid of things,” he says, voice sympathetic, but firm, “might want to try a donation bin.”

Natasha smirks. “Not as satisfying.”

Roger’s lips twitch. Just barley. “Well, if you’re going to keep burning stuff, maybe give us a heads-up next time.”

You just want to be swallowed by something. The earth maybe while we’re at it.

Bucky’s eyes are soft. Subtle. Like watching an iron door swing open just a crack.

“Did it help, though?” he asks, seeming sincere.

You blink.

You certainly didn’t expect a question like that. You might have expected teasing. Or mockery. Not gentleness. Understanding. As though he stood where you are. As though maybe he tried to burn his past too.

You nod, a little shyly. “A little.”

The fire has now been extinguished. Wilson and Rogers share a few words, poking the ashes with a metal rod.

And Bucky still looks at you as though you are not ridiculous. As though you are not ash-streaked and emotionally unstable.

Then he clears his throat. Smiles a slow, crooked, criminally charming smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you want to confess things. Dreams. Secrets. Your social security number.

“Well,” he starts smoothly. “Fire’s out. No citation this time, but maybe go easy on the candle sacrifices.”

You feel something in your chest flutter. Or combust. Honestly, hard to tell at this point.

You want to thank him. You want to say something easy. But you are still a hot, melted candle of a person yourself.

So instead, you nod. “Okay,” you promise, voice rather small.

He tips an imaginary hat. Then turns back to his team. Taps his helmet once against his leg and gives the others a low command you can’t hear.

The moment is over. Clean-up begins. The fire is out. The chaos is settling.

But for some reason, your heart is still making noise.

****

Time doesn’t tiptoe.

It lumbers, loud and unbalanced, dragging itself across your days with all the grace of a wounded elephant.

But still, it moves. And you start to feel like yourself again. Piece by piece.

You sweep the ash out of your ribcage. You remember what it feels like to listen to music without flinching. To laugh and mean it. To make pasta at two in the morning just because you want to. To exist without waiting for the next disappointment.

It’s enough for you to walk barefoot again without stepping on invisible landmines disguised as memory - his coffee mug, his toothbrush, his phone charger, his smell stuck to your pillowcase like grief with a cologne subscription.

But all of that is gone now. Burned.

Literally.

Charcoal in a rooftop bin. Ashes scattered to the wind like bad omens. The hoodie’s gone. Melted into memory. Along with the notes, the tickets, the Polaroid of the two of you at that Halloween party where he said he loved you for the first time with sugar on his lips and a lie in his mouth.

You’re better now.

And on a Thursday, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells of Wanda’s lemon detergent and safety, your head in Wanda’s lap, legs draped over Natasha’s thighs, all of you filled with late breakfast and post-shower hair and the warm, sleepy glow of late morning.

Wanda is ranting about her dream journal. She always tries to analyze her dreams for some reason.

“But I was a tree, Y/n,” she’s saying, balancing a mug on your shoulder. “An emotional tree. I cried leaves.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “That’s tracks.”

You hum amused. “You’ve always been sympathizing with nature, Wan.”

Wanda points her spoon at you as though it’s a wand. “You get it. Nature is screaming and I hear her.”

A worn novel lay on your shins on Natasha’s lap, cracked open. But she’s been on the same page for twenty minutes. You think she’s listening more than she lets on.

The apartment smells of roasted bread. The sun is slanting in through the windows just right - those lazy golden stripes that make even your chipped coffee table look cinematic.

“Do you think he knows?” you voice after a silent moment.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Knows what?”

“That I burned his stuff?”

Wanda hums, carding her fingers through your hair. “Don’t think about that. It doesn’t matter if he knows. The universe knows. That’s enough.”

You glance at the windows. You wonder if the hoodie screamed when it caught fire. You hope it did.

“Honestly,” you say around a handful of cereal, voice lighter, “burning that stuff was the healthiest decision I’ve ever made.”

Natasha smirks. “Aside from therapy.”

“Obviously.”

“And cutting your bangs.”

“That was a journey.”

Wanda lifts her mug. “To combustion and personal growth.”

You clink your cereal box against her cup. “Amen.”

There were, of course, consequences. A polite but stern letter from the landlord. An eye-roll of a fine from the city. For future ceremonial burnings, please contact the fire department in advance, it read.

But it was worth it.

Every last spark.

There’s a comfort here, in the clutter, in the way time is moving again. Not fast, not smooth, but forward. You’ve started reading books again. You’ve stopped stalking his Instagram. Well, mostly.

“You seem about a few steps away from writing a memoir called How to Set Men on Fire (and Still Make It to Brunch)” Natasha muses.

“I’d buy that,” Wanda immediately chimes in.

You snort.

Outside, someone yells at their dog. A siren shrieks in the far-off distance like an unfinished thought. Your apartment smells of burnt toast and coffee grounds, and it’s home.

You’re okay.

Almost.

And then the fire alarm goes off.

It screams. A wailing, shrieking, banshee of a sound, as though the building is having a panic attack and wants you to join in. Lights flash. The walls vibrate. Your soul tries to exit your body.

Wanda’s spoon hovers in the air.

Natasha glances at the ceiling with an unimpressed look.

You feel your pulse do a little skip. Not in a full panic. But a creeping suspicion unfurls behind your ribs.

Natasha is already standing, moving, with the efficiency of a woman who’s never been surprised in her life.

“Is this us?” Wanda asks, voice high and uncertain. She looks around your shared apartment. “Did we- was it the oven?”

You bolt upright. “Nothing’s in the oven.”

“Well then who-”

“I swear I didn’t light anything.” You raise your hands.

“Well, I didn’t either,” Wanda insists.

“Doesn’t smell like us,” Natasha says, sniffing the air like a human smoke detector.

But none of that matters because the building has made a decision and that decision is everyone out now.

You’re still sitting. You’re in pajamas. You all are. And not the cute kind either. The kind that suggests you’ve been crying into a tub of ice cream while watching documentaries about whales. The kind with ducks on the pants and a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big and maybe has a mustard stain from Tuesday.

You hear doors opening. Feet on stairs. Someone is yelling about their cat.

Natasha grabs her phone and keys. “Let’s go before it turns into the Hunger Games.”

You move. Slowly.

You’ve made your peace with fire, sure - but only the kind you start on purpose. Symbolic. Controlled. Supervised by emotionally repressed firefighters with sharp jaws and suspicious amounts of upper body strength.

But this is unexpected.

This is the kind of thing that sends a hot flood of unease down your spine, because what if the universe is laughing at you again? What if you are, yet again, being punished for trying to let go?

You follow Wanda and Natasha out the door.

The hallway is bright with flashing lights - red, urgent. The sound is louder out here. So loud it makes your teeth vibrate. You can’t tell if it’s coming from your floor or somewhere above, but there’s a smell this time. Faint, sharp, ugly. Plastic and heat and something bitter curling in the air.

There’s a river of bathrobes and sweatpants and panicked neighbors. The stairwell smells like old takeout and anxiety. A toddler is crying. Someone’s dog is barking. A woman herds two cats into a carrier with shaking hands.

Mr. Feldman from 3B is arguing with someone on speakerphone about whether he unplugged the coffee maker, and you think the fire alarm might actually be the least chaotic sound happening right now.

“Was this us?” you repeat Wanda’s question, a little unsure, as you file down the stairs like middle-class refugees.

“No,” Natasha mutters coolly. “But I’m still blaming you.”

You clutch the railing and follow, ducking your head, trying not to make eye contact with any of your neighbors as your duck-printed pajama pants flap dramatically behind you.

You shouldn’t care. No one looks good during evacuation. And Wanda and Natasha look the same.

And yet. Your heart is doing something strange again.

It isn’t panic. It is expectation.

Your chest knows something your brain refuses to name.

At the bottom of the stairwell, someone holds the door open and you all spill into the daylight. The whole building is out now, buzzing like bees, people muttering and shielding their eyes.

You breathe in. Sharp. Cool. You try to ignore the knot forming in your stomach.

Smoke - real and thick - drifts from one of the kitchen windows on the fourth floor.

The crowd shifts around you - barefoot neighbors, a couple wrapped in matching bathrobes, one guy in boxers and cowboy boots holding a microwave. Someone brought their goldfish out in a bowl.

You stand near the hedges with Natasha on one side, arms crossed, and Wanda on the other, biting a fingernail and muttering something about how she definitely turned off the stove.

And then - like something out of a fever dream or a scene you didn’t realize you were still starring in - you hear it.

The sirens.

Louder this time. Close.

You freeze.

Wanda gives you a side-eye.

Natasha is already smirking. Already watching the street like a woman with a secret.

There’s a rumble. A hiss. The low growl of something inevitable.

And there it is.

The truck.

Big. Glossy red. Familiar. Like a mouth ready to swallow your dignity whole. Lights flash, the crew leaps down, gear gleams in the late morning light.

Fife firefighters fan out with mechanical movements. Their boots hit the pavement.

And one of them is Barnes.

He swings out of the cab with the ease of someone who does this for a living, the kind of grace that comes from muscle memory and a thousand repetitions.

Helmet under one arm. Radio clipped to his shoulder. That same uniform hugging his frame beautifully, as though even his clothes know how lucky they are.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s too busy scanning the building, hollering orders. Wilson and Rogers follow behind, already moving. You watch them as though this is a movie.

Barnes is all lines and velocity. His body moves as though he doesn’t need to think, as though instinct lives in his spine. The heavy jacket makes his shoulders look even broader, the suspenders visible where the coat parts, and everything about him suggests competence with a capital C. He’s not just handsome, he’s horrifyingly capable.

Your mouth is dry.

His eyes sweep the crowd.

And then he sees you.

He stops. Only for a second. His face changes.

You wish you had the words to explain it, to bottle it, to pin it down like a butterfly under glass. It’s not surprise exactly.

It’s something softer. Smaller. Recognition.

His eyes travel down your frame like a soft inventory. Not lewd, not invasive. Just checking to make sure you’re still whole.

Your whole body wants to shrink into itself like an accordion. You are in duck pajama pants. You have mascara from yesterday smeared beneath one eye and your socks don’t match and you have nothing to use as a shield against judgment.

Barnes doesn’t say anything as he walks past your cluster, but his gaze brushes yours again. A flicker. Like a note passed under the table. You feel it in your spine.

And then he’s gone, slipping into the building.

The door swings closed behind him.

And your whole body forgets what it was doing.

The tall blond and another man whose name tag you’re not able to make out follow him, shouting something into the radio as they rush through the front doors. Wilson stays near the truck, communicating with a woman in a blazer. Another circles the building’s exterior, already unraveling the hose in a way that feels choreographed.

Wanda exhales beside you. “Okay but why do I feel like I need to sit down.”

Natasha keeps smirking. “Girl’s not even on fire and he still looked like he wanted to carry her out bridal style.”

You don’t answer. You pretend not to hear them. You’re too busy trying to teach your lungs how to work.

A woman nearby is having a loud conversation with her parrot in a travel cage. An older man keeps pointing at the sky and saying something about chemtrails.

Across the street, a woman with curlers in her hair cradles a barking Pomeranian. A man in flannel pajama bottoms is life-streaming on Instagram, offering uninformed commentary like, “Yeah, looks like they’re going in hot. You seen that one dude? That’s the captain. I think. Or maybe the lieutenant? I don’t know, he’s got the vibe.”

But you are watching the front door.

Five minutes pass. Maybe ten. It feels like too long. You chew the inside of your cheek until it tastes of metal.

Then the door opens again.

Barnes steps out first.

He’s holding a cat.

A full-grown orange tabby against his chest. It meows furiously but stays nestled against his jacket, one paw resting just under his collarbone.

The crowd parts for him as though he is Moses with a fireproof jacket.

“Oh would you look at that,” Wanda whispers delighted. “A true hero.”

You inhale through your nose. It doesn’t help.

You continue watching how he walks across the street and hands the cat to a sobbing teenage girl who is engulfed in a comforter and clutching the fabric with trembling hands. He squats in front of her. Saying something. Something soft, gentle, reassuring. And she laughs through her tears. You watch her nod. You watch her wipe her face with her sleeve.

You want to ask what he said.

You want to ask a thousand things.

But mostly, you want to stand still in this feeling a little longer.

It’s something shaped like interest, tilted toward longing, balanced on the lip of something you never expected to feel just yet.

“Just smoke from a toaster,” one of the other firefighters calls out. His name tag says Torres. “No damage. False alarm.”

The neighbors sigh. Groan. Someone claps.

You still can’t look away from him.

He stands again. And then there’s another glance.

His posture is relaxed now. The light hits the silver of his belt buckle and makes your eyes squint. A breeze picks up and he runs a hand through his hair.

God, he looks human in a way that makes you forget you’re made of skin and not glass.

People are filing back into the building, muttering about smoke detectors and building codes, their faces pulled into various expressions of relief, annoyance, and boredom.

You’re still on the curb.

The sirens have stopped. The smoke has thinned.

And then suddenly, Barnes turns. Starts walking. Straight toward you.

Your pulse is pounding as though the building is about to fall.

You pull your sleeves over your hands because it’s all you can do with them.

You’re staring at a crack in the pavement. One that branches like lightning across the sidewalk. One you’ve never noticed before, though you must have stepped over it a hundred times. It looks like something trying to split open, as though even the concrete is tired of pretending.

You look up and he’s already halfway to you.

He is walking as though he means to. Not rushing, but not wandering, either.

He’s got his jacket slung over one shoulder this time, sloppily, as though he forgot it mattered. The suspenders are still visible, stretched over a plain navy shirt that shouldn’t be as flattering as it is. His gloves are tucked in the crook of his elbow. The radio clipped to his belt is crackling with static and shorthand codes, but he doesn’t reach for it. A smudge of soot streaks his jaw like a shadow of what he just walked through.

His boots are heavy, but his steps aren’t. His eyes are on you.

He walks like someone who isn’t thinking too hard about where he’s going but definitely knows where he wants to stop.

You blink twice. Your heartbeat forgets what tempo it’s supposed to be playing.

Natasha says nothing, but you feel her lean imperceptibly to the side, just out of the line. Wanda pretends to scroll on her phone, though the screen is black and upside down.

There is still the faint scent of smoke in the air. But his scent cuts through it - soap, metal, something warm and masculine that probably shouldn’t make your knees wobble, but does.

You consider digging a hole in the sidewalk and folding yourself into it like a collapsible chair.

But you don’t. You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

And then he’s there. Right there.

Boots planted on pavement. A hair’s breadth too close for casual, a hair’s breadth too far for intentional.

You look up at him.

He looks down at you.

“Well,” he starts, rough voice, but you see a twitch of amusement in his mouth that seeps warmly into his tone, “this isn’t gonna turn into a habit, is it?”

Your pulse makes poor decisions. You forget every single word you’ve ever learned in any language, including your native one.

A corner of his mouth quirks up further. “Because if it is, I’m gonna start thinking you just like havin’ us over.”

You find scratches of your voice somewhere in your throat. “Wasn’t us this time, gladly,” you say, a bashful and breathless laugh fleeing your lips. You turn to Natasha and Wanda for a moment but it seems they expect you to lead this conversation.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, tilting his head. “Had me worried for a second. Fire call, same building. Whole lotta commotion. Coulda been you tryin’ to burn something again.” His tone holds a teasing edge. His eyes are glinting.

You cringe. “Right. Sorry about that, again.”

A smile breaks fully across his face - slowly, as if it’s deciding whether it’s allowed to exist. It changes his whole face. Brightens him, somehow. As though there is a light inside his chest and someone just flipped the switch.

“Ah, no worries. S’ what we’re here for,” he rumbles, amused but soft.

He’s still smiling. Still watching you with that calm, unreadable focus that makes you feel as if you’re standing under a magnifying glass, but not in a cruel way.

“Name’s Bucky, by the way,” he says, like a gift.

You stare. “Sorry, what?”

He smiles wider. “My name. Bucky. Captain Barnes, technically, but Bucky’s fine. You know, in case you decide to burn anything again and want a direct line.”

Your mouth parts.

“Oh,” is all that comes out. Brilliantly. Eloquently. Like a poet in the throes of emotional ruin.

Bucky chuckles softly, a little small. Then scratches the back of his neck.

“I, uh-” he starts, then stops. Then shifts his weight a little. “I didn’t get your name last time.”

You study the smudge on his ridiculously handsome face. The square of his jaw. The lashes too long for fairness. The scar, faint and silvery, placed just under his left eye like a comma he forgot to erase.

You tell him your name.

His smile deepens when he hears it. Grows softer. He repeats it once, quietly, as though he is trying it out. You wish he wouldn’t do that. You wish he’d do it again.

“Well,” he notes, glancing down at the pavement, then back at you. “Nice to meet you officially. Under slightly less dramatic circumstances.”

You smile. “Slightly.”

There is a beat. A quiet one. His eyes flicker down your frame and back up - quick, respectful, but curious. You swear he clocks the fact that your hands are shaking a little.

He rebalances, a ripple passing down his spine to his heels. “You okay, though? Really?”

You nod, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. “Yeah, we’re okay. It’s a relief that it was only a false alarm. And it wasn’t us.”

You gesture lamely at the girls. Wanda waves with exactly one finger. Natasha stands there with the corner of her mouth tugged up smugly. She barely nods.

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off you.

It’s not overt. Not predatory or invasive. But it’s not nothing, either. Just direct.

He nods slowly. As though your answer passed inspection.

“You girls all live together?”

You nod again, teeth catching the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. All three of us. Since last spring.”

He hums. Doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t look at Natasha. Doesn’t look at Wanda.

Just you.

“Good,” he says finally. “That’s good. You’ve got backup.”

You smile, tentatively. “They’re alright.”

“Sure are,” Natasha deadpans.

Wanda throws a heart at you with her hands.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle a little at the edges. You want to bottle that look. Hide it in your drawer. Peek at it when the day is quiet and you forget what warmth feels like.

A pause.

You think maybe that’s it. Maybe he’ll tip his head, excuse himself, go back to his team. That would make sense. That would be the responsible, professional thing to do.

Instead, he points to your pants. “Nice ducks, by the way.”

You stare at him. You absolutely, completely stare.

Natasha makes a pretty unattractive snorting sound behind you.

Wanda is suddenly very interested in retying her shoelaces.

“Thanks,” you manage. “They’re vintage.” You hope you sound less embarrassed than you feel.

He lets out a rumbling laugh.

Then the tall blond calls his name. Rogers. Sharp. Quick. Business.

Bucky turns, lifts a hand in acknowledgment. “Duty calls.”

He takes a step backward, but his eyes stay on yours a second too long.

And then he winks. It’s absurd. It’s illegal. It’s completely unnecessary.

“It was nice seeing you again.”

Then he walks back to the truck. Climbs in.

The engine roars. The lights flash once more for good measure. The truck eases into the street, and he is gone.

But you don’t move.

You just stand there, blinking into the smoke-tinged sunlight, your names still hanging between you.

You roll his name around in your head like a stone you’re not ready to skip.

Wanda steps up beside you, peering after the truck. She sighs like a Victorian ghost. “I love that you didn’t blink that entire time.”

“I blinked,” you grumble.

“You didn’t,” Natasha confirms flatly.

You inhale deeply.

Wanda grins. “So, what are we going to burn next.”

You exhale. Laugh, light and shocked and a little bit lost.

And you don’t answer.

But you’ve never wanted to set something on fire so badly, just to see if he’d come back.

****

You don’t want to go.

Not even a little. Not even at all.

You say it with your whole chest, with your arms crossed and your face stuffed into the corner of the couch cushion.

Wanda is painting her toenails on the coffee table. “Come one. It’ll be fun.”

Natasha doesn’t look up from her phone. “It’s good for team bonding.”

“Team bonding?” you squeak. “What are we, a softball league?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m just saying. If there’s ever another toaster incident, I’d rather not die because you were emotionally incapacitated by a bread product.”

You groan into the pillow.

Wanda and Natasha signed you up for a fire safety class.

And you’re terrified.

Because it’s been weeks since you saw him last. Weeks since the smoke, and the heat, and the stupid lingering eye contact. Since he said your name as though he meant to keep it in his mouth for a while.

And you know - because your spine told you before your brain caught up - you know Bucky Barnes is going to be there.

You know this because Wanda knows things, and Natasha forces things into being.

And yes, okay, you miss him. You do. You hate that you do. You met the guy two times and still, your heart folds a little at the sound of diesel engines, you started keeping your hair brushed and your lips soft just in case the universe decides to toss him back into your orbit.

But seeing him again would surely feel like touching a sunburn.

You don’t want to burn.

You don’t want to heal, either.

You want to stay in this in-between where you get to miss him quietly without having to do anything about it.

So naturally, you end up in a folding chair in the local fire station’s multi-purpose room at 6:59 pm on a Wednesday.

There is a faint scent of metal and ash in the air. The kind that stays on walls no matter how many layers of institutional paint try to hide it. The overhead fluorescents are buzzing as though they are irritated by your presence. A series of old community flyers hang crookedly by the entrance. One says Stop, Drop, and Roll Your Way Into Preparedness! with a cartoon Dalmatian smiling as if it has secrets.

And although you would rather perish than admit it to your best friends, you came prepared.

You’ve been preparing for this moment the way some people prepare for court trials or emotionally complex family dinners.

You know the difference between a Class A and Class B fire.

You know the ideal temperature range from smoke detectors to function.

You know that a grease fire should never be doused with water and that lots of people don’t find this fact to be obvious.

You even practiced saying pull, aim, squeeze, sweep in a tone of detached casual interest while brushing your teeth last night.

Because you thought maybe if he sees you as competent, as calm, as someone who doesn’t panic around fire or men with broad shoulders, then maybe he’d-

You don’t finish the thought.

Because it’s dangerous.

Because although you didn’t agree to go here, you technically didn’t say no, which Natasha argued was basically a signed contract in this household and Wanda only hummed from the kitchen while printing out the registration forms.

Because your stomach flipped when Wanda said his name earlier. Because it flips every time. It still flips now.

Because you think about him too much. And you know you shouldn’t.

You’ve been doing well. Truly, objectively, almost scientifically well. You burned the things of your ex. You deleted his number. You ignored the last two texts, even when they got mean. You ignored phone calls from anonymous numbers because you knew he had his ways of reaching you. You told yourself it was done.

But it was Wanda who said it last night, curled into your couch with her knees tucked under your blanket and sympathy as well as concern in her eyes.

“He’s going to keep trying, you know. That kind of man always does. The trick is to stop listening before he gets loud enough to convince you you’re still his.”

You didn’t say anything then.

But now, sitting here, hands tucked under your thighs, ankles crossed awkwardly, the words feel like something still echoing inside your chest.

You’re trying not to sweat through your light sweater, trying not to pull at your sleeves as though you are twelve again and back in gym class, trying very hard not to imagine what it’s going to feel like when he walks in.

Bucky.

God, even his name feels like a bruise you keep poking on purpose.

“Just relax,” Wanda eases from beside you, all calm and legs crossed and sipping her chamomile tea in a travel mug she smuggled in as though it’s not against the rules. “It’s just a class.”

“And not just any,” Natasha adds sultry, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder with the kind of confidence you’re not able to possess at the moment. “It’s fire safety. You’ll learn to stop, drop, and roll, and make eye contact with your future husband.”

You turn to look at her. “I hate you.”

She nods. “But in a sexy, grateful way.”

You sigh. Cross your arms. Chew on the edge of your thumbnail and silently negotiate with god.

And then he walks in.

You feel him before you see him. Like gravity shifting. Like a magnetic field drawing your molecules to the surface of your skin.

Bucky Barnes steps through the doorway in a dark navy station polo, sleeves hugging his biceps with zero regard for your emotional stability. His uniform is not the big, intimidating, soot-stained kind with suspenders and the heavy boots and the sense that something is burning. This is the community outreach uniform. His dark hair is swept back but a little tousled, as though maybe he was in a rush. There is a clipboard under one arm, a radio attached to his belt, and he looks like competence in human form.

You exhale as though you’ve been underwater.

The entire class - about twelve people in total - turn to look at him as though they’ve never seen a firefighter before in their lives. There are a few women in yoga pants, a very enthusiastic grandpa, one teenager who looks as though he was dragged here as punishment, and a few genuinely interested looking men.

He doesn’t see you right away. He’s scanning the front row, muttering something to one of the other firefighters - Danvers, her name tag reads, a straight-standing, no-nonsense woman with a kind smile. She looks as though she could carry a refrigerator up a mountain, and you sink further into your chair.

Wanda leans into your space. “I can basically hear your ovaries-”

“Shut up,” you grit out, feeling as though you might melt into the fabric of the chair beneath you.

Bucky scans the room, nods a polite greeting.

And then he sees you.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

It’s not dramatic. Not some cinematic double-take.

It’s worse. It’s soft.

His eyes catch yours and he smiles. Just a small curve of the lips. But it’s tender. Not performative. Not polite.

Your heart cartwheels straight out of the window.

You try to smile back but you’re pretty sure what happens on your face is chaotic.

Wanda makes a sound into your ear that can only be described as a squeal disguised as a cough. Natasha looks far too smug.

Bucky turns back to the room as though nothing happened. As though he hasn’t just detonated something in your bloodstream.

But he does stand a little straighter. Taller. Composed.

Then he claps his hands once, enough to bring the room to attention. As though he didn’t already have all eyes on him.

“Alright, folks,” he begins, voice even and low and warm enough to steep tea in. “Thanks for showing up. I’m Bucky, this is Carol. We’re going to run through some fire safety basics tonight. Shouldn’t take too long. Might even be fun.”

He grins now, looking around, landing just short of you this time.

You are a molecule. You are made of panic and possibility.

“But,” he speaks up, adjusting the clipboard. His voice is still doing that low rumble thing, like warm honey poured over rock. “Before I start throwing a bunch of information at you, I wanna know where everyone’s at. What you know, what you don’t, if anyone’s set anything on fire recently - accident or otherwise.”

His gaze snaps to you for just a second.

Your face bursts into flames.

Natasha and Wanda both lean in sideways and you shut them both up with a glare.

Bucky paces slowly across the room as he talks, like someone stretching his legs, taking his time. He gestures toward the group with a nod.

“Let’s start simple,” he continues. “Say your smoke alarm goes off in the middle of the night. What’s the first thing you do?”

Silence.

A few people shift in their seats. One woman raises her hand. “Grab my purse?”

“Put on pants?” remarks one of the guys.

Bucky smiles. “Valid. But not ideal.”

You raise your hand, heart thudding. Bucky raises an eyebrow, facing you fully and nodding at you.

“Check the door for heat before opening it,” you say, voice clearer than expected. “Use the back of your hand. If it’s hot, find an alternate escape route. It not, open it slowly and stay low.”

Bucky grins. It’s real and blinding. Pulling up slowly, tugging at the corners of his mouth as though he forgot how good it feels to smile that way. A glint sparks in his eyes.

“Exactly,” he confirms, nodding. “Textbook.”

You smile back shyly before you can stop yourself.

Natasha exhales beside you as though she is watching a soap opera. “She’s showing off.”

“I’m so proud,” Wanda whispers, misty-eyed.

You ignore them both.

Bucky keeps going, asking questions you mostly end up answering.

And he keeps watching you. Keeps studying you. And every time he does, something tightens behind your ribs.

A woman behind you mutters something about you being a teacher’s pet, but you don’t care. You’re not trying to be perfect. You’re trying to show him you learned from your mistakes.

And his eyes - blue and gentle and a little too amused - sparkle when you catch him glancing again. He ducks his chin once, as if to say you got me, and moves on to demonstrate how to deploy a fire extinguisher.

When he picks one up with two fingers as though it’s a soda can, several women gasp delighted.

Your skin prickles.

Natasha takes a slow sip of her coffee and watches you as though she is analyzing battlefield tactics.

When Bucky explains PASS - Pull, Aim, Squeeze, Sweep - you mouth the words along with him without meaning to.

He notices. You know he does.

There’s this almost smirk on his face.

And you can see the softness in his expression.

He talks through the basics - smoke alarms, evacuation plans, kitchen hazards. There are visuals. Charts. A slideshow. Wanda takes notes. Natasha twirls her pen like a knife.

You try to pay attention.

But your eyes keep drifting.

To him.

To the way he gestures with his hands. The way his fingers touch the edge of the table when he leans forward. The way he makes everyone laugh when he admits he once set off a fire alarm in the station trying to microwave a burrito on one of his first days.

He glances up when you laugh.

Your hands are fiddling with the fabric of your trousers. Your nerves are a concert hall. Every thought sounds loud inside your skull.

And when you think your heart might climb fully out of your throat, he turns back to the class. “Alright,” he announces, “now that we’ve scared you enough with PowerPoint, we’re gonna break into small groups and run a few practice drills. Let’s get into the fun part.”

A few people chuckle. One woman near the front giggles, flipping her hair over her shoulder as though she’s about to audition for a shampoo commercial.

You look down at your shoes.

Wanda leans in. “Can you believe how hard she’s trying? That’s actually pathetic.”

“Shh.”

“She’s wearing heels. To a fire safety class. Who does she think she is?”

“Wanda-”

“I bet she-”

“Ladies,” Natasha interrupts, lazily observant. “We’re moving.”

You watch the people file out of the room to move to the next one.

And you want to die. Or melt. Or somehow escape through the vents like a cartoon ghost.

But you have no other choice than to get up.

Prepared. Composed. A little bit on fire.

And the first thing you notice is how warm the training hall is. Not uncomfortable, but undeniably warm, as though the air has been steeped in sunshine and engine oil and the memory of things burning. The industrial lights make a low sound above, a metallic echo rolling across the tall ceiling. The whole place smells faintly of rubber, extinguishing foam, and steel that’s been handled too many times.

The practice area is marked by orange cones and taped grids on the floor.

Bucky steps into the middle of it with a kind of slow-motion certainty that makes the floor feel as though it’s tilting gently toward him.

You watch the veins on his exposed forearms, mapping them like routes to forgotten cities.

He and Carol Danvers start with group demos. Together, they run through the basics again. People are listening, nodding, pretending they aren’t mostly watching him.

You are watching him too.

But you’re also pretending not to. A lifelong skill, fine-tuned by heartbreak.

“Now let’s try hands-on,” Bucky decides, setting down the extinguisher and glancing around. “We’ll split into smaller groups. Carol and I will come around and help out. Just don’t point the thing at your friends.”

Laughter, light and scattered.

People start pairing off. A trio of women - dressed as though they expected a photoshop - flutter toward Bucky with hopeful eyes and strategically slouched shoulders.

“Oh my god, I don’t get this at all,” one of them breathes.

The others are leaning slightly forward. “Me neither.”

Bucky doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t glance over at them. “Danvers, you good taking that group?”

Carol nods. “My pleasure.”

And Bucky walks away without another word.

Straight toward you.

Your hands are clammy.

He stops in front of your group.

“So,” he starts, eyes moving around you three before landing back on you and then on the prop extinguisher in Natasha’s hand. “Who wants to go first?”

Wanda elbows you so hard your soul might have been knocked out.

You step forward.

He hands you a fresh extinguisher, this one heavier than expected, and you try not to look as though it surprises you. He steps closer, one arm already reaching out to steady it when your grip fumbles. His hand brushes over yours. Warm. Firm. He doesn’t move away immediately.

He’s watching you. Smiling, slow, a little crooked.

“Just like that,” he mutters gently.

You are a marshmallow in a microwave.

“Okay,” he says gently, letting go slowly - painfully slowly. “Now I’m gonna walk you through it, all right?”

You nod. Words are impossible. Language is a memory. You’re not sure your legs exist anymore.

“P.A.S.S,” he says. “Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Sweep. Easy.”

You repeat the words in your head another time.

Behind you, someone clears their throat - loudly. It’s the shampoo commercial woman. You glance back and see her smiling up at Bucky as though she’s already sewn his name into a couple of throw pillows.

“Could you maybe show me next?” she asks, eyelashes fluttering like a wind turbine.

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change.

“Carol?” he calls over his shoulder.

Carol looks up from her own demo station across the room. “Yeah?”

“Got one more for you.”

The woman visibly wilts.

Carol grins and waves her over.

Bucky turns back to you without missing a beat.

And maybe it’s your imagination but he’s standing just a little closer now.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod. Your grip tightens around the handle.

“Okay. First, pull the pin - here.” His hand finds yours again, fingers brushing over yours as he guides them toward the small metal piece near the top. It’s gentle. Confident. His breath is warm near your cheek, and you wonder if he always smells this good or if you’re hallucinating.

“Good. Now aim,” he instructs, voice lower now, not for any reason you can define. “Low, at the base of the fire. Like this.”

His arm brushes against yours as he shifts the nozzle, touching the outside of your elbow, guiding your arm as though you are made of delicate machinery.

“Then squeeze. Controlled, firm pressure.” His voice is deep. Soothing. Lulling.

He glances at you.

You do your best not to break out into a sweat.

Foam spurts out in a satisfying arc toward the mock flame target. He grins.

“Perfect,” he praises, and your breath stalls. “Last one, is sweep. Just like that.”

And he guides your hands - both of them - side to side, mimicking the motion.

You finish the drill. Exhale. Your hands tremble slightly, not from nerves. From the startling thrill of his proximity.

He steps back. You miss the warmth immediately.

“Nicely done,” he comments, and his voice is soft. Almost proud. “You did great. Handled it like a pro.”

You look away, flustered. Your fingers are tingling.

Wanda is making a face behind him as though she’s at a wedding. Natasha just raises one eyebrow.

“Thanks,” you say, and it comes out rather quiet.

Something churns in his face. A kind of satisfaction takes place.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but Carol calls from the front. “Barnes, we’re starting the fire blanket demo.”

He sighs.

And steps back.

“Alright, well,” he says, winking. Winking. “Don’t run off.”

As if you could.

As if your legs weren’t still made of goo and your brain wasn’t currently rebooting.

He walks away, and you feel every step like a loss.

You hadn’t thought you could feel like this again.

Not after him. Not after everything.

But here you are.

And Bucky Barnes just taught you how to put out a fire.

Still, your heart goes all up in flames.

“I am made for fire, for breaking and bending and healing in all the places that used to ache.”

- Nikita Gill

Part Two

connor zilish core