thunderbolts* truther

TRAVEL&co kiosk, between gates 31/32 & gates 33/34.

An overwhelm of options can paralyse choice.

Bursting from the metal confines of the display stand, a rainbow of pamphlets cry out for your attention, each more desperate than the last to be picked off the shelf and purchased. Titles in bold, italics, underlined; every old trick in the book, intended to capture the eye, stands before you.

Top 20 Tourist Stops in East Asia.

DOs & DONTs of Hostel Living.

HIDDEN GEMS: a Guide to Rural Sight-Seeing.

Trust your gut, you can practically hear your mother’s voice in your head, guiding you to put your faith in something arbitrary. While her motherly advice is typically welcome, this time the thought leaves an acidic taste in your mouth that lingers, souring your expression and becoming the root of your furrowing brows.

Your gut has unfortunately been a source of misery as of late, leading you down the regretful path of trusting a man, putting all your patience and hope in his ability to change, eventually, for you. What a selfishly naive belief, to think you could change fate, scrub the mould off a man’s heart and bring him back to the land of the feeling. No affection that requires you to humiliate yourself is ever worth it, and god have you learn it the ugly way: tears dripping onto the carpet beneath your knees, chest heaving for breaths, and his lame-ass excuses, I’m just not ready for commitment, baby.

More the fool you for believing a man pushing thirty, incapable of holding down a job, and still riding the high of his days as the high school quarterback could ever face something as challenging as putting a label on the months of ‘messing around’ you both had been partaking in. Now here you stand, suitcase checked in and a one-way boarding pass in hand, frozen before the overwhelming display of travel books one of the airport’s many kiosks has to offer, and hellbent on placing as much distance as possible between you and that man.

A last minute decision, filling the neglected well of spontaneity in your life. Your parents had thought you mad, your friends had insisted on keeping you company. With both groups of protesting figures in your life, you put your foot down and demanded the solitude you craved. After all, you can’t exactly embark on a solo-trip around the planet with someone by your side — even if that someone is your mother or closest friend.

But maybe loneliness is not all it’s cut-out to be. You’d give up everything just about now to have someone to help pluck out the right pamphlet, something sure to serve you not just your first stop but for the entirety of your travels.

“You’re looking at stand like it owes you a debt.”

At first, you think you’re hearing things, brain so desperate for validation it’s taken to imagining company. Then something moves in your peripheral and you’re struck with a sight that feels like something the universe has sent directly to mock your battered and bruised heart: a man.

Not just any run-of-the-mill man, but a man made of blue eyes, sharp cheeks, and a smile so pearly-white you feel you’re staring into the mouth of a predator, inches away from sinking it’s canines into your delicate skin and devouring you whole… But no beast looks like this, enchanting and handsome in a manner that has you questioning where this stranger has been hiding from you all along — until, of course, you remember you’re in an airport and it’s likely this man is merely passing through your city, a temporary stop on his journey to who-knows-where.

Is it too late to change your flight?

“And now it seems the debt is mine,” the stranger lets out a chuckle at his words, wolfish smile stretching wider along his cheeks and making you painfully aware of the creases that mark the skin around his eyes — evidence of a life well-lived, the wrinkles of happiness. They only serve to make him all the more enticing to stare at, a deer caught in the glow of a very beautiful headlight. “Any chance I can pay it off with a little advice?”

Why has it taken you so long to realise the man is talking to you?

A scramble for breath, for words, for something that won’t deepen the embarrassment already scorching your cheeks, you muster a sophisticated, “Huh?”

… and instantly wish the linoleum flooring would spontaneously drop to reveal a sinkhole big enough to swallow you.

“Here, let’s go with,” the man drags out his word, bending at the waist as he leans forward, arm reaching down to pluck something from the stand. You barely have time to admire the way he fills out his trousers, jeans clad skin tight against the swell of his ass, before his spine has straightened and he’s waving a booklet in your face. “This sounds pretty useful, don’cha agree?”

The tiniest twang of an accent kisses your eardrum, scratching an itch you hadn’t even been aware of until now. You almost feign mishearing, just for a chance to hear the stranger repeat himself. But your eyes are drawn downwards, towards the title in his palm, and all hope of feigning ignorance flies out the door.

The Wise Traveller: navigating safety as a solo-travelling woman.

Hackles rise, an old reflex from the days you payed your gut any mind. Your mouth dries, and your eyes widen slightly, and you’re suddenly reminded of the fact this stranger is a man, mankind’s greatest predator.

“How do you know I’m travelling alone?” The question is a bite, one you deliver before sense can tell you better.

By the way the man’s smile falters, a minuscule tremble in the corners of his mouth, your hostility was unexpected. Nevertheless, the man makes no attempt to impose his presence on you, shoulders slouching in on themselves and dampening the height he holds over you.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” his words are sheepish, almost, a twinge of embarrassment painting a rosy streak over his cheeks. A hand winds its way up to the back of his neck, a self-soothing method you know far too well, fingers rubbing over skin. “You just… have the look. I’m really sorry miss, I didn’t mean to make you uncomforta-”

“It’s fine,” a mixture of shame and guilt has you cutting him off, eyes shooting back to the display and making a hasty decision to pick up the first guide they land on. “Thanks for the advice, but I’m all caught up on safety. This is what I was looking for.”

An Idiot’s Guide to Germany. It sits pretty in your hold, thin enough to read before the plane descends back onto solid ground, and completely useless to you.

But the man in front of you doesn’t need to know Germany is far from your destination.

So you scurry off, ready to put the embarrassing interaction in your rear-view mirror and re-vowing to yourself to put an end to interactions with men that make you want to claw out your skin — whether the fault be theirs or your own — and shoot off in search of the till. But something halts you on your way, turning on your ankle to face the beautiful stranger once more. He’s watching you with an endearment in his eye that makes your guts tangle in knots, sickly butterflies flying the nest and spreading through your body.

Men can be so unfairly pretty sometimes, especially when built like the model-esque figure before your eyes.

“Have a safe flight!” And with this final and only attempt at politeness, a last-ditch effort to salvage a conversation your own paranoia has already butchered, you shoot off to pay for a travel guide that will soon make a home for itself at the bottom of your bag, never to be kissed by the light of day again.

Paying for your unwanted good and stuffing it into your purse, your pursuit of escaping as swiftly as possible is hindered by the sudden tap of a finger on your shoulder, coaxing you to glance over your shoulder and find the same beautiful stranger, smile still plastered across his million-dollar face and sporting a plastic bag in his grasp, extended out to you and awaiting your acceptance.

“Please,” the blue-eyed man presses, plastic rustling in his grasp. “I’m sure you’re a smart girl, and that you’re more than capable of keeping yourself safe. But I have a little sister and- Well, it just wouldn’t sit right on my conscience to not do my part in keeping a woman safe.”

You accept his offering, fingers looping through the holes of the bag, because it feels cruel to deny him, to send him off with his tail tucked between his legs and his well intentions stomped all over the floor.

The man excuses himself, rushing off who knows where as you begin your own journey towards your assigned departure gate. Only as you settle in to the exhausted queue of antsy passengers, desperate to start their holidays or return to their families at last, do you take a peak into the plastic bag.

There it sits, just as you expect, The Wise Traveller.

Before you can think better of accidentally advertising to your fellow travellers your vulnerable state of solitude, the booklets is in your grasp and you’re flicking through the opening pages. Blue ink, smudged by the press of pages, catches your eye; an inscription from your handsome stranger.

There’s no such thing as being too careful. Stay safe, be wise, & enjoy your trip. - Bucky

Dragon Crest Mountain, Thailand.

The view from the top of the world is beautifully depressing.

Beautiful because the horizon stretches below you, curves and edges of green treetops and mountainous terrain. An infinite expanse of mother nature’s art painted shamelessly over the canvas of the Earth, unmarred by the hands of man nor the wheels of machines.

Depressing because, despite the view, your mind is elsewhere; enthralled by visions of tangled sheets, and bruising touches, and tear-filled tissues.

With the fellow hikers that surround you moved to silence by the ethereal view, no chattering mouths can muffle your ears from the buzz coming from your bag. A familiar pattern of three, buzz buzz buzz, you can easily picture the screen lighting up with his name, treacherously innocent for a man who masks the Devil behind his shy smile and his careful caresses.

You groan, louder than intended, and surrender with an apologetic smile towards the group of elderly women shooting daggers in your direction. Your frustration cannot be helped, really. It is utterly and entirely justifiable, given the texts staring back at you from the screen in your hand, freshly fished out your bag and clasped within your sweat-dampened grip.

DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:48 you'll never guess who i ran into today, honey.

DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:48your mother, she said your flight landed safely!

DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:49 i'm glad but i can’t help wishing you were here. my bed isn’t the same without you.

Psychological warfare.

That is what this is, the manipulative moves of a man who knows all the right words to say at the worst of times. How can he speak of missing you, when he couldn’t even appreciate you when you were right in front of him, nothing short of begging him to need you as much as you needed him?

Still, your ex-situationship’s messages worm themselves into your mind, planting seeds of doubt into your dignity and sanity. Your thumb swipes up on the screen before you can think better of it, the lingering muscle memory of a lovesick fool who at last has felt the exhilarating rush of hearing from the man who makes your usually rock solid heart feel like it is made out of glass.

It wouldn’t hurt to reply, surely. It would be the polite thing to do. After all, you and him are friends. Good friends, with years of history outside of the sultry looks exchanged atop mattresses. And he just wants to know you’re okay, right? A perfectly human reaction to having the person you spend nearly every day beside suddenly up and leave, bags packed with a one-way ticket and a declaration that you are going to see what else the world has to offer, both the good and bad.

Just as you type the opening letters to a calculatedly casual reply, another message enters the chat, lighting a fire in your chest and flooding your mouth with the bitter taste of anger.

DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:53 but it’s okay. take your time. i’d rather you work through your little hissy fit first.

Scoffing before you can help it, you hastily switch off the phone and shove it back into your bag, eyes rolling and mouth curling with a snarl as you mutter, “Rich coming from a man who cries every time his shitty team loses.”

The remedy to the ugly feelings swirling up a storm in your chest lays ahead, dragging your eyes back out to the view of the world at your feet, a vastness that manages to make yourself, and consequently your troubles, feel minuscule and unimportant. You can cry a thousand times about a man who will never change his ways nor mature beyond the mindset of a frat-boy, and the Sun will still do her job regardless of your pain: rising, falling, and blessing the lands with her warmth.

And so, ultimately, no matter the heartbreak locked behind your phone screen, you are truly a girl who is going to be okay. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or in any recent days that follow. But at some point, as you jet from country to country, checking off box after box on your bucket list, and nourishing your well of experience, you will feel your phone buzz with a notification and the last thing on your mind will be the hopeful dread of it being from Tony.

Something flashes in the corner of your eye.

Startled, your shoulders jump as you turn, just in time to be blinded by the obnoxious flash of a camera, shutter snapping shut as the camera’s owner takes a picture. Sight still blurred by the blinding white light, you faintly make out the shape of a dark haired man, camera still raised at shoulder height.

“Oh, sorry,” you stumble over the apology, too busy trying to shuffle out of the lens’ way. “Let me just- I can move, so you can get the full-”

The cameraman chuckles and the sound runs right through you, a visceral reaction stirring within as you feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise and your palms grow sweaty. It’s like you know that laugh, the deep chortle that has an uptick in pitch at the end, itching at a particular spot in your ear.

“No, no, it’s fine- Don’t move!” The man, amidst his laughing, exclaims with a panic that manages to freeze your fleeing feet. Camera back to his face, he points it unmistakably at you and clicks capture, flash firing in your eyes again. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just- Wow.”

Doing your best to not show your confusion — though a part of you is painfully aware of the awe in the stranger’s tone, and the Tour Guide name tag dangling from his lanyard, and the curious American twang voice — you settle on a tightlipped smile, polite enough to gift a stranger yet not void of the utter confusion coursing through your veins.

“Sorry, gosh… You must think I’m some kind of creep,” the man continues his spew of apologies, shaking his head as he lowers the camera and let’s it drop, strap tightening around his neck and halting the device from crashing to the floor. “I normally ask before I, you know, take pictures of the tour guests. But the sunset was hitting you perfectly, and you looked so candidly peaceful, and I didn’t want to ruin the picture by making you… Aware. People get awkward when they know a camera is watching them.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s-” whatever words awaited at the end of your sentence are lost to space and time, as the cloudiness finally drifts, no longer obstructing your line of sight, and you find yourself face to face with eyes so blue, you would have to be an idiot to forget them. “Bucky!?”

Taking on the role of confused bystander, the blue-eyed man is now the one shooting you a tightlipped smile, a questioning gaze skimming over the length of you. You swear you can almost see the cogs turning in his brain, like he is actively trying to replay any memory that features your face.

When it hits him, it is a visible recollection, one that sends his mouth stretching into a full-blown smile and has you embarrassingly aware of how white his teeth are, canines glinting under the shine of a lowering sun.

“Hey, I remember you!” Connection established, he takes a step closer to you, lowering his voice in an attempt to not interfere with the quiet solace the rest of the hikers are seeking. The dampening of volume is not enough to deafen the excited recollection in his voice. “Kiosk Girl! Wow, this is- How was Germany?”

“What?” Mouth moving quicker than mind, you let your confusion rule over your sense before you are struck over the head with the rest of the scene that unfolded at the kiosk stand. The staring at pamphlets, the interruption of a handsome stranger, the offer of a survival guide. Your defensive denial, the awkward reach for a booklet all about a country you weren’t even travelling to, the gift of the survival guide, inscribed with the handsome stranger’s name. “Germany, right. Yeah, uh, it was great. Bit cold but-”

“Cold, in June? Strange,” Bucky, now even closer than moments before, is staring down at the camera, back in his hands and flicking through a series of photos. Photos of you, bated in hues of orange and purple, staring out to a blanket of greenery, sundress trapped in motion by the rustling of a warm breeze. “I always heard the weather was good there this time of year.”

Like a glass of cold water splashing over your face, the man’s words are enough to leave you shaken, the ice-cold embarrassment that soon melts into the shame of lying — and lying badly, of all things — to someone with a smile as earnest as his.

Too deep now to back out, you nod and commit to your deceit, praying you live long enough to someday forget this interaction ever happened, “Yeah, they- Well, the locals said it was a fluke. Global-warming, you know, changing the natural order of the world.”

If there is a higher being watching over your interactions, it is made of cruelty and spite, for only a creature made of all things not-nice would thrust you into a position where you embarrass yourself in front of a beautiful stranger not once, but twice — the same stranger, too. Incidents weeks apart, yet the burning sensation of bile biting at the back of your throat is just the same as the one you felt in the airport, rushing away to pay for the neglected German guide you had shamefully abandoned on the plane.

Bucky, the stranger who has unknowingly become the agent behind your most embarrassing moments in recent times, is none-the-wiser to your internal panic, nodding in acceptance of your explanation and shifting focus over to the camera in his hand.

“I’m sorry, again, for taking this without asking. I didn’t mean to scare you,” is it fair for a man to look so effortlessly good, one hand reaching up to push a set of overgrown brown curls from his forehead, hooking one particular long strand behind his ear? Rarely a fan of long locks on a man, there is something about the way he wears his head of hair, dishevelled yet, strangely, not a hair seems out of place, falling perfectly in a way that frames his sharp features. His voice fills your ears again, pulling focus down to his rosebud lips. “But, uh… If you don’t hate the pictures, I can pass them along to you.”

“If I don’t like them? Are you kidding?” Overcompensating for your frazzled nerves, your enthusiastic display as you glance down at the photograph burnt into the camera’s screen is hopefully enough to atone for your earlier sin of lying. “These are- Wow! I mean, are you a professional photographer? You should be photographing models, not working here as a tour guide-”

And now you are just overdoing it.

Because, truth be told, the picture is not even that good. You are barely in focus, the background is more pixelated than one would hope, and there is an intruding figure in the corner, the sandal-clad foot of a man who had been standing off to the side.

“You really think so?” Bucky drinks in your praise, cheeks glowing a rosy hue as he basks in your eager praise. Men really are so simple at their core, happy to believe they are overqualified in a skill they barely have at the slightest of celebration. “I was just messing with the lens, didn’t think I’d even do that good… Oh, but, actually-”

He pauses, hesitation on his face as he mulls over a thought.

You encourage him to speak his mind, eyebrows furrowing as you question him with your gaze.

“It’s just, I completely forgot, we’d have to exchange phone numbers if you’re wanting me to pass the photos on. Which I totally understand if you’re not comfortable with! I mean, I’m a man, and I’m a stranger, and-” Like he is aware of his own mouth racing off ahead of him, Bucky draws his tongue back in and tries to settle a little composure into himself, straightening his shoulder and clearing his throat. “Or we could meet somewhere in a few days, if you want a printed copy of it. Would Wednesday work for you?”

The shake of your head comes swiftly, shooting his offer down, “Sorry, I leave for Tokyo on Tuesday. But I don’t mind! Exchanging numbers, I mean.”

To the outside, you must sound like a pair of mumbling, stumbling fools. Sentences barely cohesive and rarely uninterrupted by a hum or a haw, thoughts actively unravelling as you both speak them into existence.

But a part of you can’t help feeling a certain wave of charm roll over you, an endearment that clutches at your heart and has you wondering how a man with a face like that could ever sound unsure of himself.

“Oh, in that case…” and Bucky has already taken to digging through his back-pocket, slipping a black phone into his grasp. You watch him press the power button, only to be met with the familiar sign of a dead battery: black screen, white charger symbol. “Shit, sorry. Do you mind if I type my number into your phone? Mine’s dead as a dodo right now.”

It would be rude to say no. And, really, what other choice do you have? Other than, of course, to suddenly change your mind and decide you don’t want the mediocre picture, but then that would require you to be rude. Besides, it’s not like you weren’t going to end up having his number anyway, what difference does it make if he types it in?

Your hands are scouring through your bag, searching for the familiar green of phone case well-past its sell-by date — with more bumps and scratches along its surface than a reckless teen’s first car — when you feel the violation of his stare wandering into the contents of your bag.

It doesn’t take long for you to both zero in on a familiar booklet, tucked neatly into an inner-pocket and seemingly sporting a few dog-ears.

“You kept it,” he notes, gaze still glued to The Wise Traveller, and the comment almost makes you hurl — because it’s like he knows you abandoned the other guide you purchased that day.

“Uh, yeah,” your reply comes a little more breathless than you would like, as you try not to think too hard about the engraving along the inside of the pages, the very place you had first learnt his name. “Figured you were right, back in the airport. Can’t be too careful these days.”

Then it hits you.

You’ve not even told this stranger- Bucky your name.

Here you are, a fool fumbling over words at the sight of his pretty face, freely handing over your phone for him to pluck into his own grasp and begin swiping over the screen, and you’ve yet to once offer him the appropriate politeness of sharing your name.

Only, as you finally give it up and introduce yourself, you’re met with a reply that from any man less attractive would have had you running for the hills: “Oh, I know!”

As though he can feel your wide eyes, watching him with a measured caution, Bucky is quick to fire into a chuckle and shake your phone in your direction, screen opened on your contacts and brandishing your name along the top.

“It says it right here. Cute name, by the way. Makes sense for a pretty girl like you,” thumbs swipe across your phone, numbers punched into a new contact. Meanwhile, Bucky continues to make small talk, with a smile on his face you have quickly decided comes far too easily to him — surely no one is that happy, all the time? You’re almost certain if you peel back the complex layers of reasoning behind his grin, you’d find customer service at the root of it all. “Is it any good?”

Too focused on studying his more-than-good looks, it takes you a moment and one too many slow blinks to realise he’s back on the topic of the safety guide, “Oh, uh, Yeah. It’s great. Very… safe, you know?”

Here you go again, lying for the sake avoiding the awkward conversation where you tell the very stranger — very kind stranger, mind you, who has extended you nothing but a show of good faith, a man so used to playing the role of big brother that he could not stop himself from instilling some level of safety into a lonesome woman — that you had not opened the book he had gifted you beyond that pages of his footnote. All those apparent dog-ears? Wrinkles in the book’s corners, a result of shoving the poor thing and crushing it amongst the other contents of your bag.

“Can’t be that good, surely,” guilt coats the back of your throat. You swallow it down and keep your focus on Bucky, who has finished inserting his contact details and now balances your phone between two fingers, awaiting your eventual acceptance of it back into your grasp. “Pretty sure you just broke rule number one.”

“I- What rule?”

Like a wind-up toy, Bucky clears his throat and recites with practised ease, “Never tell a stranger your travel plans.”

Your whole world goes still.

A heart that no longer beats. Lungs that no longer inflate. Hands that run cold with a nervous sweat.

Birds chirp in the distance, the noise louder than ever before. Voices, muffled as though you are submerged in water, swirl around you in an unidentifiable cluster — men, women, children; every one more monotone than the last.

It’s his laugh that pierces through the threatening haze of quiet, throaty and inviting, tickling at your own humour despite the fact you can’t seem to pinpoint what exactly is so funny about this situation.

Maybe this Bucky guy is just a little awkward, the type to fall back on laughter when he feels stifled by silence.

You don’t get the chance to investigate your sudden theory any further, for the duties of a tour guide seem to catch up to him at last. The flock of older women have swarmed him like vultures, each trying to get him to help them focus the binoculars that dangle from their necks. Before they can fully sweep him away, the handsome stranger offers you one last grin and some parting words.

“Have fun in Tokyo!”

Bondi Beach, Australia.

Like any true, modern day feminist, the last thing you enjoy doing is agreeing with a man… But Anakin Skywalker certainly made some good points against sand.

It is coarse, it is rough, it is irritating, and it does get everywhere.

Right now, it’s wedged between your hallux and index toe, irritating the skin with each step you take, grinding against the toe post of a sandal and driving the bothersome granules deeper into you. So, it’s safe to say you dive at the first sight of respite, just about throwing yourself into an empty bar stool.

Pearl Waves Beach Club is certainly a sight to behold.

A beacon of white, with floor to ceiling length windows that look out towards golden sun and aqua waters, and an overwhelming aura of wealth and excess that makes you feel less than adequate, wandering through the air-conned space clad in a burgundy two-piece bathing suit, a hastily tied shawl around your waist, and shoes that announce your every move with a harsh slap against marble flooring that echoes out into the tranquility of the beach club.

None of that matters now that you’re nestled in a seat, the lingering dampness from the ocean that still clings to your bikini bottoms now wetting the dark leather beneath it. The sticky residue of suncream has mixed with your sweat, creating an uncomfortable film atop your body, and salt has embedded itself into your scalp, doing its best into coercing you to scratch at and relieve the pinch in your skin. Despite all that, you feel nothing short of blessed, covered in the tell-tale stains of someone who has spent the better half of their day strewn upon a sandy beach and basking in the sun’s radiance, like if you lay there long enough, you will eventually evolve and gain the skill of photosynthesis.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Barely believing the vision unravelling before your very eyes, you blink twice before making a show out of rubbing your knuckles against closed eyelids. Sight readjusting to the brightness of the beach club, you find your eyes have far from deceived you: there, making his way up the length of the bar, with a dishtowel tossed over one shoulder and a pearly-white grin plastered along a clean-shaven face, is none other than your handsome stranger.

“Oh my-” Cutting yourself off before you can fully form the words, you gape at him in shock, pointer finger aimed at his direction as though you are accusing him of something — like the crime of running into you for a third time on your trip around the globe, or the more unforgivable sin of daring to look better with each run-in. Even now, the luscious locks you had admired back in Thailand chopped and traded in for a far shorter, more polished slick of dark hair, held in place by a lick of hair gel, he looks better than ever. There’s only one issue- “James?”

That is what sits engraved into his golden name tag, clipped to a black button up that sits stretched a little too tightly around his forearms.

Following your line of sight, chin near pressed to his sternum as he looks down at his chest, Bucky — or James, or whatever his name is — is flooded with a wave of red, embarrassment burning at the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“Afraid my name’s not actually as cool as something like Bucky,” his hands plant themselves on the bar, as the man positions himself directly across from you over the counter top.

Try as you might, you can’t resist the invisible magnet that draws your attention down to his arms, bare in a way they never have been before. While you want to follow the trail of veins that dance up the length of each forearm, you instead find yourself staring where politeness says you shouldn’t.

Because where you expect to find skin as golden as the one along his right arm, you find a story of pain instead. Splotches of pink paint the otherwise white skin with colour, with a shine that does not match the typical look of flesh. Where some spots appear unnaturally smooth, other flecks of tissue appear sunken in, visual marks of trauma along his left arm.

Catching yourself as you blatantly stare, regret making impact with your chest, you force yourself to meet those aqua eyes of his, watching you with the patience of someone who is beyond used to the rude — even if well intentioned— stares.

“I don’t know if cool is the right word for Bucky,” opting for diffusing with humour, you tease your handsome stranger. Though, really, maybe he is no longer a stranger. With how often fate seems to be driving you together, maybe it’s time you consider him an acquaintance. “Sounds like the stage name for one of those horses, you know? Make some noise, folks, for Bucky the Bucking Bronco!”

Mouth contradicts hand, as James struggles to contain his amusement, pouring out of him in melodies of laughter. All the while he grasps at something dramatic with his palm, colliding over where his heart sits beneath layers of cotton and flesh and bone, clutching as though you have freshly driven a dagger into him.

“Harsh! Call me a loser next time, why don’cha?” There it is again, that lilt of an accent, curving over the man’s words as he feigns offence. Palms up in defeat, Bucky shakes a chuckle out himself before pinning you under his intense stare, “Go on, tell old Loser McGee over here wha’cha want, before they kick you out for harassing an innocent bartender.”

A familiar overwhelm befalls you, leaving your stomach feeling like a led balloon as you fix your attention on the boards behind Bucky, where options upon options, upon options lay scribbled in chalk. Brands of liquor, strains of beer, every cocktail under the sun; they all sit compiled in a list so overflowing with choice, it paralyses you once again.

“I,” you drag out the sound, mouth paused and agape while you try to pick something, anything to drink… Before ultimately confessing, “Have no idea. There’s too much to choose from.”

“You’ve got a real problem making decisions, you know that?” You are almost taken aback by Bucky’s brash declaration. No matter how true it may be, you never expected the man made up of bashful smiles and shaky words to just come right out and say it like that, no tact in his choice of words that could soften the blow of reality. “Between here and that kiosk, I’m starting to worry about how you’ve been getting by without me on the rest of your trip.”

While you might have tuned your gut out nearly two months ago, she has a nasty habit of screaming her way back into the forefront of your mind. And right now, she’s screaming a tale of seduction, one where she is trying her best to convince your sharper senses that there is a flirtatious undertone behind the way Bucky cocks his head and tilts one side of his mouth up into a smirk, just waiting on your response to his teasing.

A bad habit that doesn’t die at all, apparently, you give in to the noise of your gut and try reach a place of equal footing, arms crossing over your chest and subtly squeezing your nylon clad breasts closer together, deepening the line of your cleavage.

“You don’t have to worry, James,” elbows kiss the cold of the bar counter as you shuffle closer and lean against it, ignoring the bolt of electric heat that shoots down your spine as you notice blue eyes lower from your face and fall right into your cross-armed trap. “The world’s full of handsome strangers eager to help a girl like me decide.”

“Is that so?” There’s a tick in his jaw, which you swear you witness him clench, only for him to distract you with the sight of his back muscles, straining as he turns and begins reaching for various colourful bottles you barely recognise. “Then let me be the one to decide for you today, hmm?”

An unmeasured amount of time pases with his back turned on you and your eyes attempting to peak over his shoulders, catching glimpses of how he chops at fruits, and measures liquids, and grabs at ice. Everything culminates in a grand finale of his hands grasping at two metal cups, one jammed into the other as he begins to shake, and shake, and shake.

Bucky is nothing short of peacocking, dazzling you with easy flips and twirls of the shaker, each toss more riskier than the last. Braced for breath, you half expect him to fail any moment now, make a fool of himself and send the contents of the cups spilling all down the front of him.

Surprisingly, this does not end up being the case.

Instead, you watch him turn with a smug, satisfied grin and lay a colourful concoction in front of you, decorated with a handful of fruit and a sprinkle of mint leaves.

“What’s this?”

“Don’t ask, just drink,” Bucky encourages you, two fingers pinched around the neck of the straw and guiding it to your waiting mouth. Just as you wrap your lips around the plastic, an angry yell breaks out from the opposite end of the bar, where you spot a red-faced, uniform-clad man glaring daggers at your handsome stranger- No, acquaintance's* direction. “Oh, shoot… I’ve gotta go, that’s my manager. Enjoy!”

Before disappointment at the sight of him racing off down the bar can solidify itself in your chest, you feel a rush of relief as you witness him come face-to-face with his manager — who you almost swear you witness rip Bucky’s name tag clean off his shirt — for the moment you take a sip of his cocktail, something in your stomach turns…

It might just be the most disgusting thing you’ve ever tasted.

Therme București, Romania.

“I have a new nickname for you,” your declaration is half-slurred, on account of your face being nose deep in the headrest of a massage table. “Buck-Of-All-Trades.”

A laugh you’ve grown too familiar with echoes over the zen playlist that has been filtering out of a speaker for the past thirty minutes. Incense burns in one corner, while a glass door that has long ago steamed up with the heat of the room sits on the opposite side. Melting into PVC leather, you are naked with nothing but a thin, pristine white towel to cover your most delicate areas. And, with knees that squeeze into your waist with every smooth roll of his hands along your oil-slicked back, is your handsome acquaintance.

Weeks and miles away from the events upon the Australian beach, you had walked into your much anticipated massage with one thing in mind, an apology given by a staff member after a forty minute wait: “The original masseuse you booked with has fallen sick, so we have matched you up with one of our newer experts. Thank you for your patience!”

Had you admittedly been a little frustrated? Well, yes!

Had that very same frustration evaporated the moment you watched Bucky step into the room, hair a little fluffier than before and sporting a five o’clock shadow? Well… Yes!

“Hmm, how so?” Like he is trying to torture you, there is a certain strain of exertion in James’ voice, a sound that pairs with the relaxing roll of his palms up the length of your back as perfectly as red wine goes with steak.

“Because,” half the word collapses into a breathy sigh as you feel the tips of his fingers press into a knot. One third of the way down your spine, burrowed beneath the point of your right shoulder blade, he sniffs it out like a police dog sent to find drugs. “Every time I see you, you have a new job.”

You leave out the part where this is the first one you’ve witnessed him be good at.

In a way, you’ve grown fond of that less-than-perfect photograph he captured of you on Dragon Crest. With a view so ethereal, it would be selfish to think anything as cheap and measly as a camera could dare capture it in all it’s glory.

And his cocktail, though far from drinkable, had certainly looked beautiful, brandished all over your Instagram story and paired with the perfect caption: Custom cocktail from a handsome bartender <3

Tony definitely had not reacted well.

You happily left his messages on read, his demands for your return abandoned to the void of your chat.

“That’s not a very nice nicknames though, doll,” a tut comes from behind you, and it takes just about every inch of will you own inside your body to not raise your head and glance back. The fear of not surviving the sight of Bucky, thick thighs spread and arm muscles rippling under his repeated touching along your naked back, is what really holds you in place. “Ain’t the rest of that sayin’ meant to imply I have no real skills? Master of none?”

With a dismissive wave of your hand and a relaxed shh, you sink deeper — if that is even possible — into the massage table, swallowing back a pleasured moan as his thumbs begin working at the knot.

“You men are all the same,” you mumble before you can think better of it, sighing as you close your eyes and visualise a montage of Tony and all his nagging words. “Can’t just take a damn compliment, always gotta turn it into an argument.”

“‘S that so?”

“Yes, that is so.”

Like he feels your breath hitch at a particular pressure, he reinforces it, thumb pressing right where you need him to, “You’re speaking from experience, I take it.”

A groan fires out of you, half because you are frustrated under the reminders of Tony that swirl around in your mind and half because there is an embarrassing rush of blood shooting straight for your core with every roll of his fingers, a slow pulse making itself known between your legs that practically begs you to grind down into the hardened leather. But you don’t, because you can’t.

Because that would be wrong.

Because that would violate Bucky’s trust and safety as a professional.

Because he would feel it the moment you even dare try, his own groin all but resting against your lower half.

“Too much experience,” you manage a response, finally. “My ex-boyfriend… Actually, I can’t even call him that. But anyway, he was the worst.”

“Oh yeah?” He passively replies with the very words you want to chant as his fingers skim and find another knot to undo, unknowingly undoing other parts of you too.

“Y-yeah,” you sigh, shoulders rolling back as you squirm and try to get comfortable, despite the slick forming between your thighs. “He used to argue with me, all the time. And he wasn’t afraid to get mean with it.”

“What a jerk.”

“Yeah, he is a jerk,” much like your body needed the physical therapy of steady hands loosening all your muscles, your mind is basking in the healing nature of finally trashing a man who had made you feel so inadequate, you had to run halfway across the earth just to escape your scorned heart. “Do you know-” a rhetorical question, for poor Bucky has absolutely no idea who you are talking about, “He couldn’t even drive 10 minutes to come pick me up once? My clutch broke and I had no way to get to work, and he complained when I asked him for a favour. He literally works down the street from me!”

“Jesus, darling,” he follows it up with a low whistle, just in time to cover up the faintest huff of a moan pushed from your mouth. “No wonder you’re so tense, dealin’ with boys like that.”

As good as the validation feels, to have a voice outside of your head paying testament to your woes and sympathising with your troubles, you are still plighted by the cruel torture of thinking too much about Tony at once. And, so, you cut the conversation short, drag it someplace else.

“What’s your story, then?”

Hands pause along your back, mapping over the skin like Bucky is searching for the next tweak to undo in your spine. Finding one quicker than you expect, he sinks his touch back into you and matches your question with his own, “Who says I have a story?”

“Oh, come on,” the effect the massage is having on you grows harder to suppress with each passing moment. “You don’t travel the world, working every job under the sun, and not have a story!”

Mask slipping a little too far, a moan crawls its way from out your chest. It is nothing dramatic, a simple hum of affirmation, a noise that says yes, keep going without you needing to part your lips.

“Okay, okay, I’ll give you my story,” Bucky is likely paying you some kindness, refusing to acknowledge the noise that just left you.

Never have you been more relieved to be in his presence. Then again, the more you think about it, his presence tends to be accompanied by relief: saving you from choosing at the kiosk, sparing you from the silence of the mountain, rescuing you from the threat of dehydration at the bar.

You catch the next hum before it can make too much noise, a subtle squeeze of your thighs relieving the burn between your thighs if only for a moment.

“I was a smart kid but I never really had any direction in life. No big burning passion, you know?” You nod into the headrest, then nearly laugh as you imagine what you must look like from his point of view right now. “So when my friend Steve showed up one day and told me he was enlisting in the military, it was like the universe handed me a task. I mean, when I say this kid was scrawny, I mean he looked one gust of wind away from being swept away to the land of Oz.”

Laughing is a mistake that only leads to a broken moan, his thumbs once again pressing just right.

“Stop that,” Bucky scolds softly, reinforcing the pressure behind his touch like he is trying to coax you into letting the noise fully form, let your pleasure perforate the calm room. “‘S just you, me, and the incense in here. I promise no one’s gonna judge you, so sing your little heart out. Let’s me know I’m doing a good job.”

Latch unlocked, permission granted; it’s embarrassing how quick you are to obey. Hypnotised by his words, you find your lips parting with permanence, throat relenting and becoming a vehicle for your pleasure, the zen playlist quickly becoming a backing track to your gentle moans.

“There we go. Isn’t that nice? Lettin’ loose, letting yourself feel good?” When had his hands reached so low, fingertips dancing along the hem of the white towel strewn along your lower back? “I quickly learned I liked the military. I was good at it. The routine, the demanding physicality, the yes, sir, yes and all the other stupid things they make you chant.”

It damn near gives you whiplash how easily James slips back into relaying his story to you, voice void of a previous layer of sultriness and now coated by something more careful, something practised. The monotony of a story told one too many times and perfected to hit all the right story beats to keep his listener engaged.

“But then there was an accident,” for the first time since he planted himself atop your back, the hitch in your breath is caused by something other than his tender touch. Memories of his left arm, scar tissues wrapped around him like vine, suddenly hits you. “I pissed some guys off, got one too many push ups handed to them by pointing out their misdemeanours to our superiors. I don’t remember how the prank was actually meant to play out but, next thing I know, I’m waking up to my bed sheets on fire and the feeling of death clawing up my arm. And that was that. A month in hospital, many more months in physical therapy. I quit the military, so did Steve.”

It feels selfish to moan right then, but Bucky only seems to light up at the sound, massaging deeper into the tissue of your back, relishing in your vocal praises.

“Then,” his pause is for dramatic effect. “I just sat and felt sorry for myself. For months. It was more excruciating than the pain, that boredom. It felt like I lost my life, even though I was still alive and fully intact, save for the scars left behind by the fire. And… I don’t know. There’s really only so long you can do that before you have to get up and go. Do something again. I just decided to do everything. Everywhere I want to go, I go. Every job I want to try, I apply. What’s the worst thing that can happen? I get rejected? I guarantee that’s less pain that what’s going on in my arm.”

Though your reasons are far smaller, far less visible, the scarring along your heart feels seen by Bucky’s words.

The massage finishes far sooner than you would like.

Bucky at last gets a chance to dismiss himself from you without some outside source dragging him away, giving you just enough time to suspect there’s hesitation in his voice, as he draws out his goodbye before exiting the massage room and leaving you to re-dress.

Bones turned to jelly, heart a little lighter too, you’re too blissed out to care that your underwear has gone missing, no longer stuffed neatly into the pocket of your trousers.

Nonno Gio’s Cooking Class, Italy.

You realise too little too late that you’ve fallen for a tourist trap.

Because Nonno Gio, who you expect to embody the essence of Italy, turns out to be a middle-aged American man who seemingly has watched one too many episodes of The Sopranos. A golden chunk of chain sits clasped around his bright red neck, and his accent is plucked right out of New Jersey.

It’s a little too hard to lament the loss of a few hundred euros, however, while watching your cooking partner whisk away at a selection of dry and wet ingredients… Particularly because the cooking partner in question is your handsome friend — yes, he has received an upgrade in titles — Bucky.

“We seriously need to stop meeting like this,” had been his version of a greeting, shoulders shaking and mouth laughing with disbelief as he watched you saunter up to the very cooking station he had been assigned. “It’s starting to get creepy.”

“Creepy?” You echoed, throwing an apron over your head, at last standing by his side. “If me stalking you all across the globe is creepy then, sure James, I’m creepy!”

Taking charge, Bucky leaves you to laugh at your own silly joke while his hands grasp at the strings of your apron. Pulling the fabric flush against your front, guarding the pretty pale yellow of your sundress from any dusting of flour or splashes of liquid, he threads the strings into a tight bow and punctuates the action by smoothing his hands over your hips, undoing a ruffle that has formed along your waist.

The entire class is a practice in patience, a way to prove to yourself just how good your ability to endure has become.

Because Bucky is an example of visual torture.

Floppy hair that falls over his eyes as he concentrates on chopping onions, a single tear slipping down his cheek. You take a deep breath and force your hands to focus on your own task, instead of brushing the locks from his face.

Muscles that ripple beneath the confines of a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and light cotton sitting loose around his bicep, just see-through enough to grant you the view how toned they are. He kneads at the pizza dough, meanwhile you need three stabilising breaths to calm your less than kitchen-friendly thoughts.

Sharp cheekbones, one side sporting the delicate swipe of flour staining his tanned skin, right where he foolishly wiped away an invisible bit of lint without fully washing his hands. You want to laugh at the sight, or to lick the pad of your thumb and swipe the powder away, but you are too busy reeling from those same flour-covered fingers grasping at your chin, tilting your eyes up to meet his blue ones, and smudging your own cheek with flour.

“There,” he mutters, cool as a cucumber and nowhere near as affected as you. “We’re matching, Now we look like a real team.”

It’s after you both ship off your pizza into the specialised oven, with Bucky insisting you both grasp at the peel and feed your wonky masterpiece, possessing a shape closer to a square than a circle, in together, that you finally feel yourself lose the ability to trap your tongue, mouth flying off to speak your thoughts before you can swallow the words back down.

“This might sound insane, so feel free to call me crazy,” is always a promising, stable way of starting a sentence. It is truly a miracle the handsome man entertains your wording with an endeared smile. “But I feel like there is a reason behind why we keep running into each other. Like… Like the universe is pushing me in your direction, you know? I mean, what are the chances?”

Silence.

The other members of the cooking class chatter around you both, but you don’t hear them, too focused on the fragile bubble that surrounds you and Bucky.

“You’re crazy,” straight to the point, monotone voice and deadpanned stare. It’s safe to say James does not give you the answer you were expecting… At least not immediately. But then the tension on the surface of his face cracks and he breaks out into an easy smile, something similar to relief swimming in the pools of his eyes. “But I’m glad you said it, ‘cause I’ve been thinking the same thing. For a while now.”

Despite the hazard lights flashing from within your gut, screaming warnings at you to not repeat previous mistakes, to not hand a man the ability to make a fool out of you, you take a leap of faith and pray this time you don’t wind up weeping with your knees pressed into the floor — there’s not even a carpet to soften the blow this time.

“I leave for France tomorrow,” this time, you share your plans knowing full well it is the number one rule in The Wise Traveller not to. You justify this violation of safety with the fact Bucky is no longer a stranger. He is your friend, right? “I’ll be in Bordeaux. You know, in case you’re struggling to pick where you’re going next. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Thankfully, Bucky is better at cooking than he is at mixology, and when the pair of you tuck into your less-than-authentic Italian pizza, you’re suddenly thankful you fell for Nonno Gio’s tourist trap.

How else would you have (possibly, maybe) scored a friendly date in Bordeaux?

Super-Bass Club, Greece.

The nightclub’s name is far from an exaggeration: you can feel the bass infiltrating your heartbeat.

Or maybe it’s not the bass, but adrenaline; kicking in and raising your heart rate.

The straps of your heels dig painfully into the skin around your ankles, rubbing them raw and no doubt drawing blood to the blistered surface. Every hurried step forces you to tug down the hem of your dress, riding up under the force of your strides. Sweat stings at your eyes and bodies swarm all around you, swaying out of tune to a DJ who loves his job a little too much, despite the fact he can barely succeed at a simple cross-fade into the next track.

At the very least, you suppose, the DJ is playing the club classics, the records that never fail to get a crowd screaming out the lyrics at the top of their lungs. It’s his only saving grace.

Safety lays ahead, a beacon of light shinning from where the exit to the club sits, new bodies spilling into the venue while all you want to do is escape.

A hand around your wrist halts you, drags you back with a squeal before you can dive out the doors.

You don’t have to turn to know it’s him, the very same stranger who has been harassing you for the past half hour, unwilling to take the hint of your side-eyes and disapproving glares as he attempted, time and time again, to grind up against you on the dance floor. While at first you had tried to flee subtly, it quickly became obvious that rejection was not something the bull-headed man took well.

The moment your footsteps had sped up across the floor, he began pursuing after you.

And now he’s caught you, a wriggling fish trapped in the painful hook of his hand. He wastes no time, another set of fingers reaching to roughly grab at your face, tilt your face up to his, and-

A scuffle ensues, one that you seem to be trapped in the middle of; a tug of war where one hand is dragging you towards your pursuer and another two, more careful, are prying you backwards.

Two trumps one, without a doubt, but not without the aid of a third set of hands, this time clamping down around the assailant’s wrist in a painful grip and ripping the unwanted hand off of you, arm twisting unnaturally as your third defender pins the stranger’s hand behind his back. Through the shock of it all, you barely register the other four hands dropping their grasp from you, nor the pair of security that grapple with the man responsible for your shaky hands and jackhammer heart.

You manage to concentrate enough to notice him, however, relinquishing his hold of the stranger to his fellow bouncers and approaching you with the caution of a scared lamb, blue eyes wider than ever before as they frantically search over your body for signs of injury.

“Are you okay? Does anywhere hurt?” Bucky — like every time before — looks better than the last time you saw him. Beard fuller, hair softer, worried face a reflection for the swirling neon lights around you both. Dressed from head to toe in black, a splash of white sits across his chest in the bold shape of SECURITY. “See, doll? This is why you need to be more careful, hmm. Where’s that guide I bought you?”

Tuning out the condescension, filtering it through a part of your brain that registers his words as only the worried rambling of someone concerned about their friend, you take to answering his first questions instead.

“I’m fine,” your voice sounds miles away to you, lost in the crowd along with the rest of the drunken fools. The buzz of alcohol has long simmered away within you, nothing but a static flatline remaining that leaves you tasting bile and wanting your bed — not the bed in your hostel, your bed, back home, where the sheets still smell like Tony. “Just my wrist hurts.”

That is enough to kick Bucky into gear, and the next thing you know, you’re sat outside the club atop a plastic chair, ice pack pressed to your skin, a jacket wrapped around your shoulders, and Bucky crouching by your feet.

A soft crack rings out into the Grecian night as he twists the lid off a bottle of water, offering it up to your lips and gifting an approving nod as he watches your throat bob, swallowing down a few sips.

“Your taxi should be here in ten minutes,” Bucky keeps his voice to barely a whisper, afraid to startle you. If you weren’t still so shaken, or stewing in a frustration towards him you thought you had got over weeks ago, you would laugh and point out the still very audible thump of Greece’s shittiest DJ entertaining the masses back inside the club. “I’m sorry… About that man. He’s been- Dealt with. Banned for life, no doubt, that’s what usually happens with-”

“Why didn’t you come?” Your question seems to hurt him more than the pain in your wrist, eyebrows furrowing and gentle smile slipping into an almost pout. “I waited. I thought I would hear from you. But you never came, and I explored Bordeaux alone.”

Knees kissing the dirtied ground, Bucky leans closer and perches his hands on your naked thighs, inches from where your dress rests around your legs, “Did you want me to come?”

“I told you I would be there.”

“That’s not the same as asking me to go,” he kisses those pearly teeth with a hiss, adjusting his grip on your legs and glancing over his shoulder, like he’s waiting for a taxi to finally pull up to the club’s entrance. Is he that desperate to see you leave? “I know you’re used to snapping your fingers and getting what you want, but I’m not that easy. Gotta use your words, baby. I can’t read minds, can only do as much as you ask of me.”

Intoxicated by his cologne, by the alcohol in your veins, by the sudden waft of cigarette smoke blown your way from bystanders to the left, there is suddenly only one question on your mind for Bucky… What a shame you speak it out loud.

“Would you kiss me?”

No further questioning is needed.

Bucky moves lazily, hand reaching up to grasp at your cheek. A thumb swipes over the swell of it, before steady fingers press your head to tilt it down to give him easier access to your mouth, pushing up from the ground to take possession of you.

His lips are soft, pressing carefully against your own. Bucky lets you take the lead, moving at whatever pace you set. At first slow, tentative, memorising the shape of his mouth against yours. And then desperate, lips widening with each smack and tongues reaching to taste each other.

Car horns blare, strangers chatter, and the bass continues to thump obnoxiously under the command of the DJ, but none of that matters right now. All that matters is Bucky, kissing you with equal fervour, groaning into your mouth as you sigh against him. The taste of mint hits your tongue, remnants of gum he had long ago chewed.

Your own wandering hands ruin the fun, gliding down the stretch of his black top and hooking two fingers beneath his belt, dragging him closer as you mutter, “There’s a spare bed back at my hostel.”

Disappointed does not even begin to cover what you are feeling when Bucky pulls back, head shaking and hands grasping at your wrists, prying your touch from off of him. Before you can feel the shame of rejection, though, he’s pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek and offering you an apology.

“I’m not the kind of guy who sleeps with a girl in your state, doll,” his hands take to tightening his jacket around your shoulders, a sudden gust of wind filling the night with a chill that runs right through you. You shiver for a whole other reason, however, when Bucky’s breath hits the shell of your ear as he mumbles into it, “Besides, I want you remembering every second of our first night together, not some drunken blur.”

Your taxi arrives quicker than you would like.

Bucky walks you over to it, holding the door open for you all the while he spills out directions in Greek to the driver. Only as he goes to slam the door shut do you remember the weight of his jacket around your shoulders, hand shooting out to pause the door.

“Wait! Here, your jacket,” you drunkenly exclaim, trying to unwind yourself from the warmth of him around you.

But Bucky is already shaking his head, hands insisting on tightening the fabric back around you, “Where are you going next, after Greece?”

You answer without hesitation, because Bucky is not a stranger.

He’s not even a friend.

He’s a man you almost just dragged to bed.

“Portugal.”

“Okay then. Give it back to me in Portugal,” with a slap of his hand atop the roof of the car, Bucky throws you one last grin before shutting the door on you, a single promise kissing your eardrums and setting your heart aflame the rest of the drive back to your hostel: “I’ll call you!”

Prisioneiro do Mar Hotel, Portugal

Bucky keeps his promise.

Calls you the next morning, arranges to meet with you in Portugal, wishes you a safe flight and even tells you that you looked beautiful the night before, even if deep-down you know you looked a mess after your run-in with the handsy stranger.

It is you who messes up this time.

“Bucky, I’m so, so sorry,” your apologies are almost as frantic as your hands, riffling through another suitcase and dumping piles upon piles of your clothing onto the hotel room floor.

The entire room is a mess, clothes strewn across just about every surface imaginable and every cupboard has been pried apart — even the safe lays with it’s door wide open, showing off your collection of jewellery to any wandering eyes.

How fortunate that the only other eyes in the room are Bucky’s, who stands by the foot of the bed and is trying his best to soothe your panic.

He’s not doing a very good job.

“I swear to you, I packed it. I remember packing it!” You, admittedly, are not the most sound of mind in this moment. A weight sits on your chest, heavy heart making every breath feel harder. Sweat gathers at the base of your neck, dampening the licks of hair at the back of your head. And, no matter how hard you try not to think about, memories of Tony are running on repeat in your mind. “God! I’m such a fucking idiot- I… How do you even lose a jacket?!”

Tearing through another bag, you’re none the wiser to Bucky as he inches closer to you, weaving his boot clad feet through empty spaces in the floor that don’t possess your clothing, unwilling to stain your pretty dresses with his footprint.

Your cheeks are overrun by tears in the blink of an eye. Angry, rotten little things that track rivers down your skin and drip all over the open bag you are kneeling over. Soft hands meet your shoulders, cradling them just as they begin to shake under the violent sobs that rack through your chest.

More than anything, you are embarrassed to be causing such a scene, especially when Bucky seems so unaffected by the loss of his jacket.

“Hey, hey,” his voice is practically a gentle coo, while his hands are dragging your body upright off the floor and forcing you to face him. “No need to cry, doll.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” this apology comes with a fresh wave of tears. At the very least you’re able to laugh, even if only a little, at your mess of a state, painfully aware that your understanding of his words does not pair well with the tears tracking down your cheeks. “I just- I can’t help it- Can’t stop them from falling. Think it’s some- Trauma response, or something.”

Breathing becomes a struggle as your chest pulls tight, lungs squeezing out every drop of air you attempt to feed them with. All the while, Bucky watches you with caring eyes, a pout nearly overcoming his pretty lips while he tries help you syncopate your breathing with his, hand pressing your own to his chest and forcing you to feel every strong inhale and easy exhale he makes.

“It’s just Tony. I remember it, this one time,” you speak in fragments, stretches of sentences huffed out with each breath, a little less shaky than the last under Bucky’s guidance. “I lost one of his shirts… Or he left it at someone else’s apartment, one of his other fuck buddies. Anyway, he didn’t react well. He was screaming at me, for hours, calling me useless, and stupid, and- God. Sorry, this just-”

“Stop apologising,” Bucky wipes away a tear before it can even fall, lets it stain his finger while he continues to soothe it over your cheek, big blue eyes commanding you to relax under their stare. Far away from Tony, he wants you to remember where you are: in a hotel room, in Portugal, with him. “Don’t have to worry, doll. ‘M not gonna yell at you.”

You thank him softly, let yourself lean forward and collapse into his arms, emotional exhaustion taking grip of your soul as your forehead meets his shoulder.

Bucky holds you like you are made of porcelain, hands barely daring to fully cup at your body as you press yourself against him.

When he hums, you feel it run right through you.

“‘Cause I know you’ll make it up to me, won’t you? I can trust you to make it right, can’t I?”

Nodding a little too frantically, nervous energy still coursing through your veins, you pull back just enough to look him in his darkening eyes, “Of course! There’s a mall not far from here, we can go and find a replacement for the jacket.”

But you’re not even finished talking when Bucky starts to shake his head, one hand flattening itself atop your shoulder and applying pressure. You’re already halfway to the floor when you realise the man is guiding you onto your knees, heartbeat beginning to pick up for a whole other reason than some stupid, misplaced jacket.

“That jacket was one of a kind, baby,” his statement confuses you. You could have sworn it carried a label from H&M on the inside. Or had you misread it, mistaken a luxury brand for something a little more familiar to you? “You don’t seriously think some small town mall’s gonna have anything worth apologising with, do you?” You shake your head without even realising, too busy watching the way his spare hand has fallen over his belt. “No, exactly. ‘S better you put your money where your mouth is instead, give me a proper apology.”

The entire act of his fingers undoing his belt, while the others slip from your shoulder and travel up to flatten themselves atop your scalp, bitten fingernails scrapping over the roots of your hair, it feels like the antithesis to everything you’ve ever enjoyed before.

With Tony, things were fast-paced yet fairly vanilla. He never wanted to draw out the experience, make his movements linger until you find yourself on the very precipice of needy, mouth watering at just the sight of a happy trail.

Which is exactly the state you’re in now, watching with anticipation as the man towering over you unthreads his belt and loosens the button of his jeans. The sound of a zip being undone fills the hotel room, reverberating off the walls of your skull and having a Pavlovian effect over you, thighs involuntarily squeezing in search of friction at the thought of what Bucky hides beneath his quickly-disappearing layers.

As it turns out, he’s hiding a lot. More than you expect.

You’re no expert in size, guesstimating that he’s definitely an inch or two over what most men possess. The tip of his cock is an angry red, crowned by a bead of pre-cum dripping from the slit and slipping over the curve of a mushroomed head. While you’ve never been a great aficionado of the male genitalia, something in you feels entranced, suddenly more than willing to sit here all day and just study the shape of Bucky.

Unfortunately, you are barely granted a few seconds to admire before the hand on your head is pulling you forward, closer, until you have no choice but to part your lips and make space for him.

“There we go,” Bucky, eyes more overblown by pupil than the pretty blue you have grown accustomed to, sighs out with guttural relief, head falling back as his hips give the smallest of juts forward into your mouth, feeding himself deeper. “God, don’t you just look gorgeous, huh? Pretty lips stretched round my cock, shit. Gonna need to relax your jaw.”

Caught under his spell, you’re left with no autonomy to stop yourself from obeying his every command, jaw falling lax and tongue flattening itself beneath the weight of his dick as he gives another roll of his hips, this one a little deeper and teasing at your gag reflex. This seems to delight the man, eyes lighting up momentarily as you choke on the beginning of a gag.

“Now, you want to make it up to me, don’t you?” Your attempt to nod just makes him laugh, biting back a groan as he feels your tongue drag over the underside of his length. “Then what I need you to for me is just sit there, keep your mouth open, and let me use your throat. Can you do that for me, doll?”

This time, you don’t try to nod. Instead, you hum affirmatively around his tip, relishing in the slight wave of power you feel as his eyes roll back and he instinctively thrusts into your mouth.

He starts with careful movements, barely-there rolls and ruts that press his cock a little heavier against your tongue with every one he makes. Tears still drying into your skin, it’s hard to tell if the slight salty tang invading your tongue is from you or him, precum mixing in with your excess of saliva.

The wetter your mouth grows under the invasion of him, your cunt rushes to match, slick turning your panties sticky and uncomfortable as you shift weight from one thigh to the other. A friction that Bucky cruelly cuts off, a disapproving tut coming moments before he nudges one foot between your legs and forces them apart, leaving nothing but the cool air of the hotel room to kiss your soaked underwear, a feeling so uncomfortable, it has you wishing you could peel them off.

“Uh-uh, no,” Bucky protests at the way your eyes squeeze shut, a pleasured pain shooting through your throat as he slowly begins to fuck deeper into your mouth. With deeper, faster is always soon to follow, until barely a moment or two seems to pass between the gargled sounds of his head hitting the back of your throat, forcing spit to slip past the corners of your lips and to drip down your chin, spilling all over the pretty colours of your blouse. “Want you watching me, doll. Want those pretty eyes on me when I fill this-ngh. This fucking tight throat.”

Bucky does as Bucky says, hot ropes of salty, thick cum spurting out to coat the back of your throat, tainting your mouth in a pearly whiteness that mixes with your spit, a messy string of fluids connecting your lips to his cock even as he pulls it free from your lips.

Before you can think too long, notice how he’s not even softened after spilling his seed all over your tongue, you’re busy being pulled back onto your feet and forced to welcome Bucky back into your mouth, this time his own tongue meeting yours. He hums in approval, swallowing back the flavour of himself all over your mouth, physical evidence of how easily he has claimed you as his.

So easily, you’ve barely even realised.

“Keep your mouth open,” Bucky mutters, thumb swiping over your lower lip and invading your mouth, pressing down on your tongue as you watch Bucky feed a string of his own spit onto your taste buds. Thumb retreating and pushing up against your chin, forcing your teeth to knock together, his instruction is simple, “Swallow.”

How you get from the messy floor to the messy bed, you’re not sure.

You’re even less sure how you wind up naked in the blink of an eye, panties tugged off by Bucky with an almost disapproving look, like the sight of them offended him.

Planted directly across from the bed stands a full length mirror, angled perfectly for you to watch as Bucky, his large frame engulfing you from behind, guides your thighs to part and puts your soaked cunt on display both of you to watch in the reflective glass, chest heaving so hard your breasts bounce with each breath.

Never have you felt so desperate, so warm, so in need of someone to put you out of your misery and give you the satisfaction of their touch. And Bucky seems to be aware of this, for he is torturing you, dragging lazy fingers down the stretch of your thighs and laughing in a way that is nothing short of mocking as a shiver runs through you and you squirm.

“Knew you’d be like this,” he’s talking more to himself than you, thumb ghosting over your clit and quickly evading as you attempt to grind down on the feeling. “Such a needy, desperate little thing. Perfect for me, aren’t you?”

You’re mid-nod when you’re forced into a pathetic yelp of, “Yes!” as Bucky’s palm slaps down against your cunt, nerve-tingling pain than soon melts into pleasure.

“When I ask, you answer, okay?” Three fingers rub at the raw skin of your cunt, two more slaps having preceded his warning. “Verbally, properly. You understand?”

You almost nod, until you think better of it, “Yes, Bucky.”

“Good girl,” his simple praise should not send your heart into arrest. But then maybe there is a lot about this situation that should not be playing out the way it is. “Now, eyes on the mirror, doll. Want you watch as I spread you open on my cock.”

Eyesight trained forward, you see the brief flash of his fingers lining his dick up against your wet hole, before he thrusts right in to the hilt and steals the air right out your lungs. One hand by your hips, the other wraps around the front to grasp at one of your tits, large hand staking claim over the entire swell of it and giving a teasing squeeze. It is hardly comfortable, pressing against the breast tissue, yet you find yourself enjoying it all the same, back arching into his touch.

Between your legs, visual sin is on display, a repeated back-and-forth motion of Bucky dragging his cock out of you a little further each time, light catching on the way your arousal clings to him in a wet sheen, before he buries himself back inside. At the base of your abdomen, right where your untrustworthy gut should sit, a shadow lingers beneath your skin, the faintest shape of him pushing up against your flesh.

“Look at us, doll,” ditching your breast, his hand grasps at your chin, stabilising your attention back on the mirror after you let yourself tilt your head back against his shoulder. “Do you like what you see? I’m everywhere, taking over you. Aww that’s it, cry all pretty for me again.”

Tears are slipping down your cheeks, overwhelm overcoming you at his words, his touch, his stare. Bucky really is everywhere, consuming you and grounding you all at once, a steady figure at your back that the universe sent you, no doubt an apology for whatever the hell Tony was.

“Bucky,” his name has never sounded so pathetic, falling from your lips in the shape of a whine, toes curling against his calves as he deepens the angle of his thrusts. Once again, the deeper it goes, the faster it grows, the soft echo of skin slapping against skin beginning to play out in the room.

“I know, baby, I know. We look so pretty, don’t we? Here,” you almost whine when one of his hands abandons you, but he silences you with the other diving between your legs, thumb effortlessly finding your clit and gifting it some much needed attention. “Take some pictures, doll. Told you I want our first time to be memorable, so go on and give us something to look back on.”

Your first thought isn’t that his phone is no longer black like you remember, this one red and sporting scratches along the back.

People change phones all the time, right?

Besides, who has time to notice silly details, when Bucky is back to touching you all over, both hands claiming parts of your skin?

Screen already unlocked, you try your best to steady your shaky thumb, guiding it up to the Recent Apps tab and attempting to press the camera icon… But Bucky just so happens to deliver a particularly spine-arching thrust, tip budging right against the spongy spot inside you that has you seeing stars, and your thumb presses on a familiar purple square before you can stop it.

And then your heart stops.

Bucky stops too, physically coming to a halt as he registers what exactly you’re staring at on his phone screen, “Well, shit.”

There, on his screen, sit two profile icons hovering over the same spot on a Life360 map: your picture, and Bucky’s.

And, try as you might to convince yourself, you know you never granted him permission to your location, never even got a notification of him attempting to befriend you on the app.

Bile stings at your throat. Your stomach drops to your knees. And, much to your own disappointment, your cunt pulses around his stilled member, buried inside you.

“There, that’s the solo-traveller look you asked me about,” Bucky somehow seems unshaken by your discovery, chuckling with near satisfaction as he watches your eyes focus back on the mirror ahead of you, stare wide and mouth paralysed with… “Fear, like you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

“James, what the hell is-”

“Shh,” he hushes you with both his mouth and his hips, grinding the head of his cock against you. Despite the situation at hand, you cannot deny the way your body physically reacts to him, walls squeezing around his cock and a moan slipping through the cracks of your frowning lips. “Thought we weren’t going to yell at each other, doll.”

“That was before I found out you’ve been stalking me!”

“Stalking is a little harsh. Watching over you sounds nicer, don’t you think?” He asks, like the wording drastically changes the result of his actions. Both hands are on your hips now, tilting them as he continues earlier ministrations, a slow roll of his own that are meant to distract you from the gut-wrenching revelation. “You were so eager to hand over your phone in Thailand, remember? You were practically begging me to add you on Life360. Bet you just wanted that comfort of knowing someone responsible was watching over you, huh?”

Did you beg? Had you mentioned the app to him at any point?

Months past, so many things happening between then and now, you are struggling to remember. Maybe Bucky is telling a version of the truth you’ve simply forgotten.

“We both know how bad you are at asking for what you want, baby. Was it so wrong of me to help you?” Warmth pooling in your spine, you barely even register the way you begin to wind back against him, bodies moving in perfect, effortless harmony as he begins fucking you properly again. “Could see it, how badly you wanted me but you just wouldn’t dare ask. Was it so wrong of me to give us a little man-made fate?”

That word almost pulls you out his trance, memories of how vulnerable you had felt confessing it back to him Italy flooding back in. And all along it had just been him, not the universe, following in your footsteps and manipulating your encounters.

Like he can feel the shadow of doubt creeping back over you, Bucky reinforces his sweet talking, mouth momentarily latching onto your earlobe and delivering a gentle scrape of teeth that forces you to listen.

“I mean, think of everything I’ve done just to have you, doll. Think of how far I was willing to travel, just for the chance to see you,” the worst thing is, it’s working. You can feel your resolve slipping, will giving into him the closer you’re moved towards the crescendo of your orgasm. “Meanwhile, Tony couldn’t even drive 10 minutes down the street for you. Is that what you think you deserve, baby? Someone who puts no effort into being yours?”

You give a nod, or a shake, or a something of your head, teeth clamping down on your lower lip as finally the first waves of your orgasm roll over you. Thighs shaking, yet he holds you steady against him.

Could you be steady, with him? Is that something Bucky can bring you?

No more crying on carpeted flooring, no more questioning where you stand in someone’s life, no more waking up to find your late night companion already gone.

“When I ask, I expect answers.”

You swallow back the ball in your throat, force away the doubt and the fear and the panic, and give into the warmth of his hands.

The same hands that orchestrated your fate, placed you in one another’s path. Isn’t that what you had been waiting for all along, to be chosen by someone?

“No,” the moment the two letter word leaves you, you feel him spill into your womb, groaning loud and proud into your ear. “I think I deserve you, Bucky.”

Bodies move languidly, collapsing into one another atop the bed, clothing strewn all around you from your earlier worries.

Your head meets Bucky’s chest, where a heart beats rapidly beneath the confines of flesh and bone.

His left arm curls around your naked body, dragging you impossibly closer. You cringe ever so slightly as you feel his cum spill out onto your inner thigh, all the while Bucky’s hand soothes the top of your head, lulling you to let yourself relax into him and let your eyes slip shut, accepting the way he cages you in.

“You do, baby. Deserve all of me. And you can have that, if you let me have all of you.”

+ extra hyde!

· guys i'm being so fr, do not do anything the reader did in this fic. y'all are too precious to wind up being the subject of a netflix documentary. · and before anyone comments that the reader has no self respect... well, yes! that is the plot. subject is very much aware <3 · no but why did any of my friends encourage me to write this silly fic??

The campus walkway blurred around you. Students swarmed between buildings, clutching textbooks and coffee cups, laughter carrying on the crisp air.

You moved through it like you were underwater.

Every step felt heavy, every sound too sharp — the slam of a door, the squeal of a bike brake, someone’s laughter behind you. Normally you’d have been reviewing your notes on your phone, earbuds in, already prepping for physics. Instead, your mind replayed the same flashing loop.

Blurred images of what Professor Barnes looked like jerking off to your streams every week.

Did he know? Had he made the connection? He kept showing up to your streams and still tipped generously, he wouldn't do that if he knew, right? He wouldn't bait you to make you tell the world of your most impure thoughts you've had about him...

Except he would.

Your chest felt tight, like you couldn’t breathe deep enough. The ground tilted when you reached the physics building, and you had to pause, pressing your palm flat to the wall before stepping inside, clutching your backpack like it might anchor you. Your heart was pounding so loud it almost drowned out the blood rushing in your ears.

The room smelled faintly of dry erase markers and dust. Peter was already there, waving you over with his usual eager grin. “Hey! Saved you a seat.”

You dropped into it, your bag sliding down with a heavy thump, and he glanced at you curiously. “Everything okay? You look…” He tilted his head, frowning. “…kinda zoned out.”

You blinked at him, lips parting. Zoned out? That was one way to put it. How were you supposed to explain that your molecular biology professor — the one you admired, the one you wanted to impress more than anyone — had been watching you spread your legs on camera all summer?

Your laugh came out brittle. “I’m fine. Just… tired.”

Peter raised a brow. “Tired as in, stayed up late studying?”

You flushed, stomach twisting. If only he knew.

Professor Banner started droning at the front of the room, equations scrawling across the whiteboard, but the symbols swam in your vision. All you could see was Bucky’s office. His jacket slung over the chair. His laptop still glowing.

Peter nudged you, whispering, “Hey. Seriously. You sure you’re okay?” He glanced over your empty Google doc, which would usually be filled with in-class notes by now.

You forced your eyes back to the board, nodding quickly. “Yeah. Just—brain fog. Should've drank more caffeine.”

But your thoughts wouldn’t settle. They spiraled and spiraled.

He knows your body better than anyone on campus, and he doesn’t even know you know.

You can’t tell Wanda, she’ll flip.

He heard you cry. He heard you beg.

And tomorrow, you’ll sit in his class again like nothing happened.

Fuck.

You're expected to sit in class like you haven't been taking orders from him all summer and letting him edge you, tell you how to touch yourself, how to cum.

Your fingers were frozen hovering over the laptop keyboard, not a single thought that didn't involve Bucky swimming in your mind. You felt the damn butterflies again, and this time it felt like they were fighting to get out like a caged feral cat.

Peter frowned, whispering again, “You’ve never zoned out like this. You usually make me feel dumb with your perfect notes.”

You swallowed hard, managing a thin smile. “Guess today’s your lucky day.”

But inside, your pulse thundered. The secret roared too loud to ignore.

The class ended in a blur, and you gave Peter and Sharon an excuse of a tummy ache to get back to your dorm quicker. When you made it, you dropped your bag and paced the length of your tiny dorm room, nails digging into your palms.

God, if Wanda ever found out— If anyone ever found out—

You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, groaning.

You weren’t mad. You weren’t even really scared. You were… spinning. Caught between humiliation, thrill, disbelief. Every time you replayed one of his lectures in your head, the timbre of his voice twisted with the memory of his typed words glowing on your screen.

“Stop hurting yourself, baby. Cum for me. Right now.”

Your stomach flipped. Your thighs clenched. You sat hard on the edge of your bed, covering your mouth to muffle the noise threatening to break out of you. Because saying it out loud would make it real — and you weren’t ready for that.

So instead, you folded in on yourself, let the secret dig deeper, a shard of glass you couldn’t spit out.

And tomorrow, you’d still walk into class. Sit front row. Open your notebook. Pretend your professor wasn’t the man who’d been getting you off all summer.

And in an attempt to keep yourself from swirling into insanity, you focused on lab work, research, the thing that you started this cam business for: your future. You tried to keep the streams going, but every time you logged on you found yourself anticipating for Bucky to join more and more, and that was wrong.

You weren't about to spit where you eat. But God did you want to spit on his c-

Bucky sat at his desk in the dark, laptop open to the streaming site. The baby pink glow of the interface lit his face as he refreshed the page.

No new stream.

Not tonight. Not last night. Not the week before.

Two weeks. Two weeks of your hand up in the air in class, of you doing more experiments than grad students in his lab, bringing in mountains of data to go through every single day, acing lab reports making it hard for him to be nonchalant about your brain or anything else about you.

The lab was nearly empty, the hum of incubators and the faint whir of the centrifuge filling the silence. Outside, the campus was dark, streetlamps casting long shadows through the window.

You were bent over your bench, goggles crooked on your head, pipette steady as you measured out samples. The late-night hours always made you hum under your breath, soft little tunes that kept you focused.

Focused on anything except his presence in the same cramped lab.

Bucky stood a few feet away, pretending to sort through a stack of articles, but really he was just… watching.

You didn’t notice the way his jaw clenched when you pushed your goggles up with the back of your wrist, or the way his chest tightened when you muttered softly, “Fifteen more minutes, c’mon…” like you were coaxing the experiment to life.

He walked over and leaned in slightly, eyes skimming over your notebook. “Your data’s clean. You’ll be able to replicate it.”

It should’ve been simple feedback. Professional. Neutral. But his tone snagged something inside you — the same tone he’d used once in a chat box, tipping you after you’d begged yourself raw.

Your thighs pressed together under your lab coat. Your throat went dry.

He held your gaze a second too long. His mouth parted, just barely. Then he looked away, scribbling something in the margins of a paper that didn’t need his attention, walking back to his stool to stare at spreadsheets from his grad students on his work laptop.

And so the next couple of weeks went by like that.

His jaw flexed, hand tightening around the glass of whiskey beside him. He told himself he didn’t care. That you we're just some camgirl he’d stumbled on. That it didn’t matter if you came back or not.

But the hollow ache in his chest said otherwise.

He found himself scrolling through your archived streams, replaying snippets just to hear your voice—the breathless whines, the soft moans, the way you gasped Brooklyn like it meant everything.

And then, every damn morning, he walked into class and there you were: front row, middle seat, notebooks color-coded, hand always raised. Oblivious. Untouchable.

You laughed with Wanda in the hallways, argued passionately in lab, brought him annotated papers for research, and presented pristine sets of data that if he hadn't been there when you thoroughly collected them, he'd think they weren't real.

And he sat there behind the safety of his title, acting like nothing was wrong, while inside he was unraveling.

Each night he logged back in, hoping. And each night, nothing.

He caught himself staring too long sometimes. The way your hand hovered in the air, impatient. The way your lips pressed into a pout when he ignored you. The way you chewed your pen cap when you were deep in thought.

And you were everywhere. Library in a study room if he was just borrowing a book for some diagram copies? There. Lab late at night? There. Deep inside his brain when he was trying to sleep but kept picturing bending you over his mahogany desk and ripping your tights in half? Also there. Definitely there.

All of it dragged him back to those nights online. To the way you squirmed for him, begged for him, called him Professor without even knowing.

Now he couldn’t get that fix. Couldn’t hear you whisper filth into your mic. All he got was the sharp, eager student version of you—polished, professional, relentless in your brilliance.

And it was driving him insane.

A couple nights later, he refreshed the page again. Still nothing. His username—Brooklyn_1917—sat at the top of the screen, mocking him.

“C’mon, doll,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his eyes. “Where the hell are you?”

The site was quiet. His apartment was quieter. And for the first time all semester, Professor Barnes realized he’d gotten addicted. Not just to the streams. Not just to the fantasy.

To you.

You were hunched over your bench, gloved hands steady as you labeled petri dishes, when Bucky’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Y/N.” You looked up, heart leaping when you saw him standing there with a stack of printouts. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but there was something sharp in his eyes.

He set the papers down beside you, tapping the top page. “I’ve been running the preliminary data from your MRSA assays.”

You straightened, tugging your gloves off. “And?”

He studied you for a moment, then said, “If the replication holds, this could be publishable. We’d need to rerun everything—double, triple, more. But the pattern’s there.”

Your jaw dropped. “Publishable?”

“Potentially,” he said gruffly, like it wasn’t a big deal. But his lips twitched when he saw your face light up.

You bounced on your toes, practically vibrating. “Oh my god. Oh my god. This—Professor, this is—” You bit back a squeal, trying to compose yourself, but your grin gave you away.

He raised a brow. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We need clean replication, every time. Start fresh with a new batch tomorrow.”

“Of course,” you nodded rapidly, already pulling your planner toward you. “I’ll get started right away. Thank you, Professor. Really.”

He grunted, turning away, but the tightness in his chest stayed long after he left the lab.

The lounge was quiet that morning, sunlight pouring through the big windows. Wanda was curled up on the couch with a mug of tea, flipping through her psych notes when you practically burst through the door, notebook clutched to your chest.

“Wandaaaaa!”

She looked up, startled, then smirked when she saw your face. “Okay, what’s got you all sunshine and rainbows before nine a.m.?”

You plopped down beside her, bouncing on the cushion. “Barnes said… my project might be publishable.”

Her eyes went wide. “Wait—like, in an actual journal?”

You nodded furiously, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “Yes! He said the data looks promising, and if I replicate it enough times, we could submit. Can you imagine? An undergrad publication? That would look amazing on my applications.”

Wanda let out a laugh, wrapping an arm around you. “Oh my god, Y/N, that’s huge! No wonder you’re glowing like you just got laid.”

You smacked her arm playfully. “Shut up. This is serious!”

She giggled, sipping her tea. “I know, I know. I’m proud of you, little psycho. All that color-coded madness actually paid off.”

You flopped back against the couch, still buzzing. “I can’t believe it. All those late nights, all the work—it’s actually working.”

Wanda gave you a sly look over her mug. “Mhm. Well, don’t forget to thank Mr. Brooklyn in your prayers tonight. Seems like both your professors are keeping you real motivated.”

Your face heated instantly. “Wanda!” You've been trying so hard to be good and not think about him like that. You haven't even gotten onto your stream in a few weeks.

She laughed, stretching out her legs. “What? I’m just saying—maybe he was right all along, calling you his good girl.”

You groaned, burying your face in your notebook to hide your smile. But deep down, you knew she wasn’t wrong.

The bar smelled like spilled beer and fried food, sticky under your shoes as you and your friends squeezed into a booth. Neon lights buzzed overhead, the music loud enough to blur the chatter into a constant hum.

Sharon returned triumphantly with a tray of shots, slamming it onto the table hard enough that liquid sloshed over the rims. “Shots!”

You laughed, cheeks already warm from the gin cocktail Wanda had insisted you chug earlier, and grabbed one. The tequila burned down your throat, heat curling in your chest as Peter made a face across from you.

“I like drunk Y/N,” he said, wagging a finger at you like he’d discovered something. “Way less terrifying when you’re not reciting metabolic pathways at me.”

You gasped in mock offense, swatting his hand. “Shut up. I’m fun.”

“Fun,” Wanda echoed, smirking as she sipped her drink. “Fun and tipsy. Wonder what your precious Professor Barnes would say if he saw you like this.”

Her words hit harder than they should have. You rolled your eyes dramatically, though the sting stayed lodged under your ribs. “He wouldn’t care. He doesn’t even look at me anymore.”

The words slipped out too fast, too raw.

Wanda’s brows shot up. Sharon let out a low whistle. Peter blinked between you all, catching on slowly.

“Ohhh,” Wanda drawled, grinning wickedly. “So that’s why we’re here. Our golden girl’s feeling neglected. Professor’s pet isn’t getting her fix of praise.” She pouted, lovingly teasing you.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, laughing anyway. “You guys are the worst.”

But inside? The words ached.

For weeks you’d been flawless. Notes color-coded, assays perfect, reports meticulous. Normally he gave you curt nods, the clipped “good work” that you lived for. Little scraps of approval you tucked away like treasure.

But lately? Nothing.

In lecture, he skipped over your raised hand like you weren’t even there. In lab, he breezed past your bench without so much as a glance. Your last office hour, he cut short after ten minutes, muttering something about a meeting that probably didn’t exist.

And you couldn’t figure out why.

Wasn’t he the professor who demanded more? Who pushed harder, who seemed to respect you most when you chased him down with questions? So why was he pulling away now, when you were giving him your best?

You downed another shot, warmth spreading under your skin, drowning out the sharp edge of your thoughts.

“Whatever,” you said, louder this time, shaking your head. “Tonight, I don’t care. Tonight I’m just… me.”

Wanda raised her glass. “To you.”

You clinked it, laughing, but inside your chest, the ache throbbed on.

Bucky nursed his beer at a corner booth, the condensation dripping down his fingers. Steve sat across from him, arms folded as Sam launched into another rant about clueless advisees. Nat was perched beside Bucky with her whiskey, sharp smile flashing whenever Sam got particularly dramatic.

Faculty happy hour. A ritual.

Bucky was half-listening, his mind miles away, when his gaze snagged across the bar.

And there you were.

Tipsy, hair falling loose around your face, laughter spilling unguarded as Wanda leaned into your side. Peter flailed through a dance move that made you snort into your drink, Sharon recording the whole mess with her phone.

Your smile hit him like a punch. Bright, free, a version of you he’d never seen under the harsh fluorescents of the lab. Could only dream of it through the streams.

His chest tightened, grip flexing on his glass. Christ.

Steve followed his line of sight, brow lifting. “Isn’t that one of yours?”

Bucky tore his eyes away, jaw taut. “…Yeah. Looks like it.”

Sam grinned, catching on instantly. “Well, well. Barnes’ star pupil’s got a wild side.”

Nat swirled her whiskey, smirking. “Careful, professor. Students aren’t supposed to see you outside the classroom.”

But then you saw him.

Across the crowded bar, your eyes locked with his. For a moment, your grin faltered — surprise flickering, softening your glow.

His stomach dropped.

You stumbled back from the bar with another round, Wanda giggling, Peter mid-rant about organic chem, Sharon cackling behind her phone. You plopped the drinks down with clumsy triumph, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

“This one’s mine,” you declared, grabbing a neon cocktail and slurping noisily through the straw.

Bucky tried to focus back on Steve, on Sam, but every nerve in him tracked you across the room.

When he finally stood at the bar to order another drink, he didn’t notice you had drifted over until you slid into the empty stool beside him.

“Professor,” you sing-songed, voice syrupy-sweet with tipsy boldness.

He stiffened, turning slowly. “Y/N.” Accidentally spilling a little bit of his drink in surprise. You leaned over the bar and snagged a napkin from behind the counter, giving it to him to wipe it down.

You leaned your elbow on the counter, blinking up at him through heavy lashes. Then you said it — the exact line, soft and blurred with drink, that had once slipped out of his headphones in the dead of night.

“You know me…” You paused for dramatic effect, straw dangling from your fingers. “... I’m always prepared.”

His blood ran cold. His eyes went wide.

You gasped in mock offense, slapping the counter. “Ohhh my god. I knew it!”

“Y/N—” His voice was low, desperate, but you were already giggling, waving a floppy hand.

“Relax,” you slurred, leaning closer, your hair brushing his sleeve. “I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

He froze, breath caught in his chest.

Then you tilted your head, looking right into him with that dreamy, dazed look — cheeks flushed, eyes shining. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the bar dissolved.

“…You’re my favorite, you know.” you whispered, like a secret slipping free, softer than the music thumping around you.

Bucky’s throat went dry, chest clenching hard enough to hurt.

But before he could even find words, you giggled again, pushed off the stool, and tottered back toward Wanda and Peter, neon drink in hand.

“Gotta finish my drink,” you chirped over your shoulder.

And he was left standing there, pulse hammering, the world tilted on its axis.

The night air was damp, cool against your flushed cheeks. The bar’s neon glow bled onto the sidewalk, pink and green reflected in puddles near the curb. You stood near the lamppost, swaying a little, phone clutched in your hand as the Uber app spun uselessly.

“Two minutes away,” you muttered to yourself, staring at the little car icon inching along. Behind you, the door creaked open. Boots scuffed against concrete.

“Y/N.” His voice — deep, gravelly, unmistakable.

You turned and Professor Barnes stood there, jacket thrown over one shoulder, shoulders tense, blue eyes fixed on you with something caught between panic and restraint.

“Professor,” you said softly, smiling a little, tipsy warmth curling through you. “Fancy seeing you out here.”

He frowned. “You shouldn’t be out here alone this late.”

You giggled, holding up your phone. “Relax. I’m waiting for an Uber.” You tilted your head, squinting at him. “You’re all… serious. You always are.”

His jaw clenched. “Y/N—about what you said inside—”

You cut him off with a little sigh, leaning back against the lamppost. “I get it. Why you avoid me.” Your voice dropped, quieter, honest in a way that sobered the air. “I mean… it makes sense. But it makes me sad, too. Because I…” Your throat tightened. “I really like when you notice me.”

You looked up at him through glazed eyes, dreamy and unguarded. “I know why you’re pulling away. And it’s okay.” You smiled faintly, a crooked, tipsy curve. “I just wish… I didn’t make you look away.”

He swallowed hard, the lamplight catching on the silver at his temples. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure I do.” Swaying closer, your perfume cutting through the sharp night air, your eyes glinting with mischief and softness all at once.

You leaned back against the lamppost, phone buzzing faintly in your hand. “That’s my ride,” you murmured, glancing at the screen. Then your gaze slid back to him, soft, unguarded. 

And before he could find words — before he could beg you not to look at him like that — headlights swept the curb. You giggled, tugging the car door open, tossing him a last smile over your shoulder.

“See you in class.” The car pulled away, taillights glowing red in the damp dark. Bucky stood frozen on the sidewalk, fists clenching, heart hammering.

Because you knew.

It was almost like the bar never happened.

Almost.

When you raised your hand in class, Professor Barnes actually called on you again. His “good work” was clipped as ever, but it was there, and you found yourself sitting straighter, smiling faintly as you scribbled notes.

He’d stopped skipping over you. Stopped cutting you out.

And God, the relief stung.

By the time lecture ended, you were already at his desk with your planner open. “Professor? I had a thought about how to frame the methods section for our assay. Do you think we should include the failed runs, or just the clean data?”

He glanced up at you, pen paused mid-mark. For a second, the silence stretched too long, his jaw flexing like he was biting something back. Then he cleared his throat, steady again. “Include them. Transparency strengthens the results.”

You nodded, jotting it down in your neat, looping script. “Got it.”

It felt almost normal again.

The rhythm of the lab returned too — or at least, it looked like it had. You were there early, gloves snapped on, assays prepped ahead of schedule. He hovered near your bench more than the others, asking for your input, letting you walk him through your data sheets before giving a sharp nod of approval.

It should’ve felt like the old pattern, back when you craved those nods like oxygen.

And Bucky?

He’d told himself he could stop. He had to stop. It was over — the streams, the tips, the late-night voice spilling from his laptop. He had his student in front of him every day. That was enough.

But at night, when the lab was quiet and his apartment darker still, he’d sit on the edge of his bed with his laptop closed tight, hands fisted in the sheets, fighting the itch under his skin.

He’d imagine your soft voice whispering into your mic, the pink glow behind you, the toys laid out like instruments. He’d remember the way you sighed in the bar, tipsy and loose — I just wish I didn’t make you look away.

And it was torture.

Because every night he didn’t log in, the wanting grew heavier. And every morning, when you walked into lecture with your color-coded notes and eager eyes, pretending nothing had changed…

…it was harder and harder to pretend he didn’t want to watch you all over again.

The hallway was silent except for the hum of the vending machine and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. Bucky stood outside Sam’s door for a long beat, folder clutched like it weighed fifty pounds. Finally, he tapped his knuckles twice.

“Come in,” Sam called, voice distracted.

Inside, his office was warm, messy in a lived-in way. Books stacked in uneven towers, a potted plant drooping in the corner, a photo of his family on the shelf. Sam sat behind his desk, typing furiously, glasses perched low on his nose.

“Barnes,” he said without looking up. “Don’t tell me you failed half your class already. Finals aren’t for a few weeks.”

“Cut it out,” Bucky muttered. He shut the door firmly, shoulders hunched, then dropped into the chair across from Sam. He shoved the folder onto the desk like it was classified intel. “I need you to take one of my students into your lab.”

That got Sam’s attention. He looked up slowly, eyes narrowing. “You?” His lips curled. “Hand off a research kid? Since when?”

Bucky didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed on some spot over Sam’s shoulder. Sam leaned back, arms crossing. A grin crept across his face. “Alright, who is it?”

Bucky exhaled sharply. “…Y/N.”

Sam’s brows shot up. “Y/N? The one who sits front row and knows all your answers before you even ask the damn question? The golden child?”

Bucky shifted in his chair, staring at the floor. “Yeah.”

Sam whistled low. “Damn. What’d she do, outsmart you? Make a meme about you on TikTok?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “She… knows something about me.”

Sam’s eyes lit up, leaning forward like he was about to settle into a movie. “Ohhhh, now it’s spicy. What kind of something? You kill a guy in the parking lot and she saw? You got a secret family in Jersey?”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “It’s not like that.”

Sam rested his chin on his hand, smirk widening. “Then spill. You’re acting like she’s got blackmail material on you.”

Silence.

Finally, Bucky muttered, “…She knows I’m Brooklyn_1917.”

Sam blinked. “The hell is that? Some underground poker alias? Your gamer tag?”

Bucky’s voice was gravel. “…It’s my username.”

Sam squinted. “On what?”

Bucky rubbed his face harder. “…On a site.”

Now Sam was grinning like a wolf. “A site. Uh-huh. Go on.”

Bucky’s words were barely audible. “A cam site.”

Sam blinked again. Then his grin split wide. “Ohhhhh shit. Wait. You’re telling me… Mister 1.2 on RateMyProfessor… spends his nights tipping camgirls under Brooklyn_1917?”

“It's not girls as in multiple... Just...” Bucky hissed, shoulders tense.

Sam slapped his desk, laughing so hard his chair squeaked. “I cannot believe this. Barnes, you’ve been jerking it to a username all semester?”

Bucky flushed scarlet. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, it’s exactly like that.” Sam wheezed, wiping tears. “Let me guess—she found out? That’s why you’re in here looking like you swallowed a grenade?”

“…Yeah.”

Sam shook his head, still chuckling. “Goddamn. I knew you were intense, but this? Next level.”

Bucky leaned forward, snapping, “Are you gonna help me or not?”

Sam leaned back, steepling his fingers like a smug king. “Depends. What’s in it for me?”

“Sam—”

“Relax,” Sam cut him off. “I’ll take her. She’s sharp, she’ll kill it in my lab. But Barnes?” He grinned, merciless. “You owe me. Big time. And I am never letting you live down that your camgirl crush turned out to be your best student.”

Bucky stood abruptly, hands shoved into his pockets. “Fuck you.”

Sam raised his glass of water in salute. “Don’t worry, man. You’ve already fucked yourself.”

Bucky stormed out, Sam’s laughter echoing down the hall.

The research lab was hushed, your bench was as neat as ever — pipette boxes stacked, notes spread in clean lines, printouts highlighted within an inch of their life. Your hair was tied back, goggles perched on your head, the sleeve of your lab coat smudged faintly with graphite from where you’d leaned on your notes.

Bucky lingered at the doorway, throat tight. “Y/N.”

You looked up, startled for a moment, then smiled brightly. “Professor.”

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, jaw flexing. “I think it’s best if you go work under a different professor. I talked to Wilson. He’s willing to oversee your project.”

The smile slipped, brows knitting. “…Okay, but I don’t wanna work under him. I wanna work under you.”

The pun wasn’t lost on him. It landed like a punch in his chest. He looked down, muttering, “You know why I’m saying this.”

You tilted your head, lips quirking as the pieces fit together. “Yeah...”

His breath caught. “Yeah.”

You leaned back against the bench, folding your arms. Calm. Certain. “Then just stop watching the stream. It’s fine. Do you want me to block you, is that it?”

Bucky froze. That wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. He’d braced for panic, maybe anger, definitely embarrassment. Not this... even, matter-of-fact tone.

You shrugged, gaze steady. “Look, I need your brain to be the one that guides this. Please? You’re literally the smartest person in this building, and I’m not just saying that because you’ve seen me shove a dildo up my—”

His hand shot out, clapping over your mouth. “Jesus Christ,” he hissed, eyes darting wildly to the empty corners of the lab. “Don't be so loud.”

You dissolved into giggles behind his palm, eyes sparkling with mischief. Slowly, he lowered his hand, face flushed, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“Chill out,” you teased softly. “I'm not telling anyone. Promise.”

Before he could recover, you flipped open your notebook and slid it toward him. “Can you look at these data points? I think the standard deviations are too high.”

He stared, dumbfounded. Whiplash roaring through him — one second you’re casually acknowledging the filthiest thing about him, the next you’re all business, pencil tapping the page, waiting for his analysis.

You looked at him expectantly, voice bright, professional. “So? Do we rerun it, or is the deviation acceptable?”

Bucky dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “I’m in so much fucking trouble.”

But he leaned over your notebook anyway, because of course he did.

The man who stepped in looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His jacket was damp, his hair curling at the ends from the rain, and when his eyes met yours, your Fig chirped in your ear. 

You almost missed it, but when your eyes dropped, and you saw the metal arm— Wakandan vibranium peeking from the edge of his jacket sleeve. You recognised him immediately. 

Fig tilted his head sharply and gave a warning chirp, feathers fluffed. His stranger danger mode had kicked in.

“He’s not a threat,” you whispered to the bird, which was easier said than done, considering the adorable thing was deathly protective over you.

Bucky looked at Fig. Fig looked back. 

Fig chirped again, and he was not disapproving, just skeptical. He was always wary of people with metal limbs after a bad experience with a garden gnome.

“Another Avenger in my shop,” you said with a welcoming smile. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”

He blinked, stopped mid-step like you’d just spoken in Morse code. “I—what?”

“You’re taller in person.” You repeated and shrugged. “Our mutual acquaintance showed me some team-outing photos.”

That earned you a half wary, half confused head tilt, maybe a little amused, but he walked up to the counter anyway. Fig ruffled his feathers, clearly intrigued.

Bucky rested his non-metal hand on the wood between you, glancing around the cosy space. “Bob did say this place was good.”

You gave him a half-smile. Bob came in a few months when he moved to the tower in New York, asking for a blend of herbal leaves that would aid in his recovery, and since then, he had already sent in two other avengers in here– Yelena needed a calming brew and Ava needed one that helped with her energy— but you didn’t think he’d send yet another one your way. 

“He’s right,” you said confidently.

“He said,” Bucky measured his world carefully, “You could help me sleep.”

The words were small, but they didn’t feel fragile. It was as if he’d said them before to empty rooms and gotten nothing back.

You nodded, already turning to reach for a jar labeled Nightangel Brew.

“Do you have trouble falling or staying asleep?” you asked. 

“I….” he paused. “A bit of both.”

You worked while you talked, scooping a blend of lemon balm, passionflower, valerian root, and a few curls of dried orange peel into a parchment sachet as an addition to the basic blend. The scent drifted up into the air. It was soothing, almost citrusy.

“No allergies?” you asked, as you scooped a bit of sea salt.

“No,” he confirmed.

You hesitated only a second before writing something on a notecard and slipping it into the brown paper bag with the tea.

He glanced at it, then at you. “You put your number on here.”

“Yep.”

He looked at you, amused but not complaining. “That’s… bold.”

You leaned in a bit. “Relax,” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “I only put my phone number in there in case you have questions about brewing the tea.”

Bucky took the sachet, eyes narrowing slightly. “You brew it differently?”

You shrugged like it was obvious. “It’s not just steep-and-dump. If you want flavour and effect, you’ve gotta be kind to it. Use a covered mug to keep the volatile oils from evaporating. Bonus points if you add honey after it cools a little. Or call Bob, he’ll tell you I lectured him for ten minutes once about not microwaving water in a mug.”

He huffed between a scoff and a laugh. Fig chirped curiously.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip twitching again. “And if I had questions about… more than the tea?”

You blinked, a little thrown off. But still, you leaned a little closer and said, “Then I’d probably still tell you to steep it for five minutes and not call after midnight unless it’s a tea emergency.”

He picked up the bag and took a step back. “Thanks…?”

You offered your name.

He repeated it slowly, like he was letting it settle on his tongue. “Okay. I’ll, uh… let you know how it goes.”

You shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, come back. We’ll adjust the blend. Or if you want to introduce yourself to Fig properly. He’s still undecided about you.”

As if on cue, Fig flapped his wings slightly and let out a single unimpressed chirp.

Bucky smiled, giving the bird a mock salute with his vibranium fingers. “Tough crowd.”

“Don’t worry,” you said. “He warms up. Eventually.”

The door jingled again as he left, disappearing into the curtain of rain outside.

You turned back to your shelf and sighed. Fig nuzzled into your cheek like he agreed.

“Yeah,” you whispered to him, smiling. “He’ll be back.”

—

After the last customer left and the bell over the tea shop door gave its tired little jingle, you flipped the sign to CLOSED, turned off the lights, and let out a deep breath.

It had been a long day — stormy weather always brought in the insomniacs, the anxious, and the romantics. You didn’t mind. You liked helping people who let tea cool in their hands before sipping it. People who didn’t ask questions about the strange, overgrown rosemary plant in the window that occasionally moved on its own as if readjusting their posture. People who didn’t ask questions when vines curled around your wrist as you asked permission to pluck her delicate leaves.

But tonight… you were tired.

Fig settled on your shoulder with a chirp and nuzzled into your neck.

“You really shouldn’t judge customers,” you scolded him. “Even the one who asked if we had matcha Red Bull.”

Fig screeched, offended.

“I know, I know,” you whispered, locking the back door. 

You walked home in the drizzle, jacket wrapped tight around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way your fingertips itched with energy.

You had a feeling something was waiting for you at home.

And sure enough — when you pushed open the creaky door of your little apartment across the street, you felt the presence of… magic. 

You dropped your keys into the wooden bowl by the door and looked around.

There, on your kitchen table, was a scroll, the mystical equivalent of a fax machine.

You sniffed the air, smelling sandalwood, ash, and a touch of cosmic ozone.

“Wong,” you muttered, stepping closer as Fig flew up to his perch in the corner of the room.

The scroll unrolled the moment you touched it.

To the Esteemed Herbalist of Fig & co The Sanctum Sanctorum requests your assistance once again. We are in need of a Class IV Lucidity Draught (stable, shelf-safe, dream-filtered, and no substitutions). Preferably before next quarter moon. Strange has broken another Mirror of Insight and refuses to admit it. Discretion appreciated. Your potions are still the most reliable in this dimension, no matter what the New Orleans apothecaries claim. Payment enclosed, as always. - Wong P.S. Fig is due for his magical familiar certification renewal. Please see attached.

You sighed, a mix of fondness and exhaustion tugging at your lips. “Of course he broke another mirror.”

Fig puffed up proudly at the mention of his name and squawked. You held up the attached pouch — sure enough, a handful of glittering stardust coins nestled inside, along with a single enchanted pearl. Payment, plus a bonus. Wong never forgot to tip.

You carefully rolled the scroll back up and tucked it into the hollow panel behind your spice cabinet — the one no one ever noticed because you’d warded it with three layers of disinterest. 

You lit a few candles, cast a quick circle, and whispered the potion recipe into the air, watching the herbs rearrange themselves on your shelf. 

The Lucidity Draught would take three nights to finish. The rarest ingredients you needed were water from the last rainfall (you always kept a bucket on your roof), rosemary that had bloomed under starlight, and a vial of sleep-ink that could only be harvested from a page left unread for seven years.

Luckily… you had all of that. Fig helped. He always knew where you stashed things.

“I told you not to bring me the experimental saffron strain,” you sent him away to fetch another vial, “It messes with dimensional boundaries.”

As the potionwork began and the ingredients simmered in your teapot, you glanced out the window, down at the street. From here, you could just barely see the windows of your own shop below, the sign swaying slightly in the rain.

Fig hovered over your shoulder, preening like a supervisor.

“You know,” you muttered as you decanted a viscous blue liquid into a tiny vial to age over a couple of days, “I like the tea shop because it doesn’t ask anything magical of me.”

Fig whistled knowingly. You glanced at him.

None of your normal customers knew, and you’d like to keep it that way. You never used magic in the shop — not even the smallest charm. 

Everything you sold, everything you brewed, was just herbal blends. Because you loved tea in all its simplicity, its kindness, and its ritual.

As you sealed the last potion bottle, Fig let out a pleased trill and landed back on the candleholder.

You smiled, finally letting your shoulders relax.

Tomorrow, you'd go back to being the local tea seller who definitely wasn’t a real witch.

You’d refill your Nightangel Brew, maybe add a new jasmine blend to the shelf.

And maybe—just maybe—keep an eye on the door.

In case a certain former assassin with a metal arm came back.

Not that you were thinking about him.

Much.

—

Two days later, the shop had just opened for the morning, and you were doing what you always did first thing: steeping a pot of your current favorite (today: chamomile, cinnamon, and a drop of pear extract), restocking the honey jars, and politely telling Fig that no, he could not perch directly on the loose-leaf tins like a goblin king.

There were no customers yet. You put on classical cello music on the speakers, whispered a patience charm into your tea steam, and Fig flipped the “Open” sign in the window.

And then your phone buzzed.

Fig, perched on the hanging rack above you, looked down with narrowed eyes. He hated when technology interrupted your tea time. You ignored him.

The message was from a number you didn’t recognise.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: This is Bucky. I think I burned it last night.

You blinked. A second message came in immediately after.

BUCKY : The tea. Not the tower.

You snorted in amusement, already typing.

YOU: I told you to steep it for five minutes in a covered mug. Not boiling water. I gave you the rules, Barnes. Did you microwave it?

Fig hissed. It sounded personal.

Your phone buzzed again.

BUCKY: I didn’t microwave it. I used a pot. Then I forgot about the pot.

You burst into laughter, startling Fig so badly he flapped his wings and knocked over your cinnamon jar. You sighed but didn’t stop smiling.

YOU: I'm not mad. Just disappointed.

BUCKY: Is this a customer service line or an ouija board for my dad?

YOU: sorry.

There was a longer pause before his next message.

BUCKY: Can I come by later? Try again, maybe supervised?

You stared at that message a moment longer than you meant to. Fig peered down at your screen, then made a throaty little hmm noise.

You didn’t look up. You just typed.

YOU: Sure. I think Fig wants to watch you try.

BUCKY: Of course he does. Is it weird I kind of want to impress a bird.

You smiled.

YOU: He is the true owner of the shop.

And as you set your phone down and turned to your blend-in-progress, you chuckled excitedly to yourself.

—

That afternoon, you were restocking the lemongrass jars when the door chimed.

Not the jingle-jangle of a casual browser or the clumsy shoulder-first push of a tourist trying to escape the rain.

You didn’t even turn around before speaking.

“Been waiting for you all day, Barnes.”

He paused before huffing out a small laugh. “I think I’ve earned ‘Bucky’ by now.”

You turned, and yep — there he was,standing just inside the shop like he wasn’t sure if he should touch anything, hair still slightly damp from the mist outside. He wore a dark sweater this time, sleeves rolled halfway up. 

And under his arm was… a mug.

You tried not to smile too obviously. “You brought your own?”

“I figured if I’m going to fail,” he said, “I should at least fail in my favourite one. And maybe Fig would be kinder to me because I’m not going to ruin one of your mugs.”

As if summoned by name, the parakeet popped up from the shelf behind you and gave a long chirp — somewhere between amused and unimpressed.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bucky muttered to the bird, pretending to understand him. “I’m not microwaving it this time.”

You took the mug from him, inspecting it. It was chipped near the rim, clearly well-loved, and had a faded print of a tree with roots stretching into a starry sky.

“This one’s seen things,” you said.

He gave a small smile. “Like its owner.”

You looked up. “That’s not always a bad thing.”

There was a heartbeat of silence between you, long enough to be noticeable. Just long enough for Fig to tilt his head like oh?

You cleared your throat. “Come on. To the bar.”

He followed you to the counter where you had already set out the tin of Nightangel Brew and a small linen pouch of fresh lemon.

You placed the kettle on its heating plate. “Step one. Know your water.”

“...Know it?”

You nodded. “Boiling water is murder on herbs, remember? You don’t want a rolling boil — you want a simmer with little bubbles.”

Bucky leaned in a little, his brow furrowed in focused concentration — or maybe just to smell. You pretended not to notice how close he was standing. Fig, however, absolutely noticed, and can’t decide if he was rooting for you or jealous of his proximity. 

Bucky watched as you spooned the herbs gently into a steeping sachet and placed it in his mug. You handed him the kettle.

“Go ahead. Don’t rush.”

He raised an eyebrow but followed your instructions. Carefully, he poured slow circles, then covered the mug with the little ceramic lid you passed him.

“Five minutes,” you said. “Exactly. ”

“Noted.”

You leaned against the bar, watching the steam rise from the gaps. “So what happened yesterday? Got distracted?”

He hesitated. You saw it in his jaw.

Then he said, “I didn’t need it to sleep at first, but… then I woke up from a nightmare. Couldn’t get back to sleep. Thought I’d try the tea, but I didn’t time it right. Kinda… zoned out.”

Your shoulders dropped kindly, “Well, hopefully, brewing it right will help.”

Fig fluttered down and landed between you both on the bar, watching Bucky quietly, tilting his head like a therapist trying to decide how to phrase advice kindly.

“I don’t usually talk about that,” Bucky said.

“I don’t usually let people behind the bar,” you replied.

Fig chirped like an alarm.

“Five minutes is up,” you said.

Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, wondering how a bird was even trained to even have a perfect internal clock, “How—“

You ignored him and lifted the lid, gently removed the sachet, and handed the mug back to him. “Moment of truth.”

He cradled it in both hands and took a careful sip.

Then another.

He closed his eyes.

“…Okay,” he said, eyes opening again. “That’s… nice.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “but this feels… good.”

Fig chirped proudly once, then flew back to his perch.

Bucky set the mug down, but didn’t back away from the counter.

“So… how do I know if it’s actually working?”

“It works differently for different people.” You shrugged. “But it usually calms people down enough to doze off.”

He nodded, “You ever drink it?”

You hesitated, patting the bench next to you as you sat. “Not lately.”

And as he sat down beside you, sipping tea while the shop filled with the smell of brewing herbs, you couldn’t help but think: Maybe you didn’t mind letting this one in.

—

Bucky came back a few days later and said the blend was “doing something,” which for him, apparently, meant actually falling asleep. He looked better. Still guarded, sure — but the edges were blunting.

He came alone at first. Always late morning or just before closing. He brought his mug. You helped brewed his tea.

He never asked for anything else.

But he lingered every time. And each time, it got a little longer.

By week two, Bucky was coming in more days than not. He was always watching you  in that not-trying-to-stare way that somehow made the staring worse.

You noticed he always sat at the same stool, second from the left, near the side table that housed your pothos. 

You didn’t tell him it was your favourite spot, but you started making tea for two without asking.

You sat down next to him and started talking about your day. 

Fig, meanwhile, hopped over to Bucky’s elbow and gave it a single approving peck. You paused mid-sip.

“Did he just…?”

Bucky nodded solemnly. “He’s warming up to me.”

“Must be the mug,” you said. “Or the absurd amount of honey you put in your tea.”

“I like sweet things.”

You glanced up and looked away. 

By week four, Fig had officially defected.

He no longer dive-bombed Bucky’s boots.

He started landing on his shoulder.

And once, he let Bucky feed him a dried goji berry by hand without biting him.

“You’re a traitor,” you said, crossing your arms.

Bucky grinned. “He likes me.”

Fig preened like a smug little demon and settled into Bucky’s scarf like it was his new throne.

“Don’t get used to it,” you muttered playfully, sweeping behind the counter.

Then came the day he walked in with Bob Reynolds.

Bob had been a customer before Bucky. He loved your rosehip tisanes. He said they calmed the void in his chest, whatever that meant. He said it also helped with his cravings.

He greeted you, his usual dandelion-yellow hoodie bunched at the elbows. Then glanced back toward Bucky with a half-smirk.

“This the one who keeps you smiling when you’re supposed to be restocking the chamomile?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “You’ve been talking to Fig, haven’t you.”

“Bird’s got opinions,” Bob said, shrugging. 

Bucky, behind him, tried very hard not to react. You caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth anyway.

They sat, ordered. Bob teased. Bucky endured it with the long-suffering patience of someone who was painfully aware of the dynamic forming in plain sight.

And it wasn’t just Bob.

Next came Yelena— a regular customer who insisted your “spicy blend” was the only thing that ever helped her relax. She strolled in one rainy Tuesday, spotted Bucky already at the counter, and raised one finely shaped brow.

“Oh,” she said, flicking her hair back. “You’ve been domesticated.”

“I came for tea,” Bucky muttered.

“You came for her tea,” she corrected, greeting you with a wave and eyeing you both with curiosity and delight. 

“Leave,” he said flatly, but didn’t actually tell her to stop.

You served her with a smile, and she left with a wink — but not before whispering loud enough for Fig to hear, “She’s too smart to be pretending she doesn’t know what’s going on.”

The next day, Ava came in to try a new blend. 

Ava was more subtle, but no less perceptive. She came in between field assignments, ordered your anti-inflammation brew, and then paused when she saw Bucky sitting behind the counter with Fig perched on his shoulder.

She looked between you two. 

Then simply said, “So… how long have you been not-dating?”

You coughed into the tea towel. Bucky didn’t even look up. “We’re not—”

“Sure,” Ava replied, deadpan. “Fig won’t even look at me, but he likes Bucky? Something must be going on.”

Neither of you confirmed it, but you didn’t deny it either.

—

Over the next few weeks, it became routine.

Bucky would try new teas. He’d ask questions. He also learned to tell the difference between the citrus tang of lemon verbena and the grounding scent of ashwagandha.

He learned how you tapped the teapot twice before pouring — a little ritual, perhaps unconscious. You learned he stirred his tea clockwise, like muscle memory. 

He smiled more. Not always at you — but often because of you.

Once, Fig dropped a dried hibiscus petal into his cup by “accident.”

You knew it wasn’t— Fig knew that used correctly, only if you cast a spell on it— it could induce an infatuation spell.

Not that Bucky needed it. The parakeet knew Bucky was already infatuated. 

You, seemed hopelessly oblivious to it, though. 

Bucky simply lifted the mug to Fig like a toast. “Thanks.”

And Fig preened.

—

One evening, just after closing, Bucky lingered while you wiped down the counter.

“I’ve been sleeping better,” he said, quietly.

You nodded. “I can tell.”

He looked at you the way someone examines a door they want to open, but aren’t sure they should. “You put something else in it?”

You just smiled. “Just plants, Barnes.”

“That’s enough,” He nodded, but didn’t look away. he said. “You got any of that cinnamon-pear blend left?”

You turned to the jar, hand already reaching. “Always.”

“Good,” he nodded, “Because I think I’ll keep coming back.”

You didn’t turn around. “I know.”

—

Bucky came in mid-morning two months later. He hadn’t been in for a couple of weeks, and that was not unusual— Bob said he had gone on a stealth mission. 

His hoodie was drawn up over his head. He didn’t say anything at first. He just dropped his usual mug on the counter, and sat in silence. Fig came over to greet his friend, but he got no reaction from Bucky. 

You tilted your head in confusion, but put on the kettle anyway. This time, you brewed Jasmine with a touch of lemon balm, a whisper of skullcap. 

“I didn’t sleep,” he said after a long silence. “Not… since I got back from the mission two nights ago.”

You glanced up. “What’s up?” you asked gently.

He shook his head once. Not embarrassed — just exhausted.

“This… this mission just reminded me of the worst fucking part of humanity. I did what was necessary,” he added. “I… tried the tea. I tried all the steps. I took a deep breath like you said. It helped for a bit. But once I fell asleep…”

His voice faded.

You didn’t need him to finish his thoughts. If whatever he saw in that mission was enough to shatter his mind all over again, you could only imagine how bad it got. 

You poured him the tea and started making him a different blend to go. 

You prepared a bit of Nightangel brew but added added a pinch of mugwort. Then a little blue lotus, for clarity. Then hawthorn, for flavour. 

Bucky noticed. “That’s not the usual.”

“No,” you admitted. “It’s not.”

He didn’t ask questions, just watched your hands move.

You looked up once the sachet was full.

“This is… stronger,” you said. 

He nodded gently and murmured, “Alright. Let’s try.”

—

He came back the next morning, hunched deeper in his jacket.

You didn’t even greet him with a joke this time. Just took his mug and went straight to the blend. “Did it help?”

“No,” he admitted, partially scared of offending you. “Not at all.”

You frowned, wondering how much more herbal remedies you could add without it being redundant.

“Woke up sweating,” he explained, “I… Couldn’t breathe. It felt like—”

He stopped. His fingers curled slightly against the counter.

You didn’t push. Instead, you leaned on your elbows, “Okay. Then we go gentler.”

“Gentler?”

You nodded, already pulling down a different tin. “No mugwort. No lotus. Just chamomile to remind your body it’s not in a cage.”

He blinked.

“Holy basil. Rose. Passionflower. A little oatstraw.”

Bucky watched you. “Will it work?”

“For some people,” you said. “But we have to… try.”

He sat back and looked at you like he wanted to ask a hundred things. 

Fig fluttered down from his perch and didn’t land on the counter this time, but directly on Bucky’s knee. 

Bucky blinked, and for the first time in days, his shoulders relaxed. “Hey, buddy.”

You pushed the mug toward him, hands brushing again.

“I’ll keep adjusting the blend,” you promised with an encouraging sigh. “As long as you keep showing up.”

He nodded. 

—

A month later, the bell chimed softly as the door eased open.

It was a sound that now felt like a sixth sense waking. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him. 

The second Bucky stepped inside, Fig perked up, puffing his feathers and letting out a trill of affection.

You smiled faintly. Fig loves him. You thought. He only sings like that for me… and Bucky.

“Hey,” you said gently, eyes lifting from the tea counter where you were measuring out dried verbena. “You’re early today.”

He nodded, and walked over to his usual still. You wanted to ask if he was okay, though you never did.

That wasn’t how Bucky worked. He wasn’t made for direct questions.

“Same as last time?” you asked.

He looked up at you, then away.

You didn’t wait for an answer. You knew it anyway.

You turned to the wall of shelves, fingers ghosting over jars. Skullcap. Passionflower. Fennel. Chamomile. You’d changed the recipe multiple times since last month. Each blend tailored to soothe, to calm, to untangle knots that Nightangel couldn’t reach.

None of it worked.

Still, you went through the motions. You always did. You wouldn’t stop trying, not for him. Not when he kept dragging himself through your door like he was searching for something solid to hold onto.

You set the tea to steep and moved to lean on the counter across from him.

“Is it not working?” you asked gently.

Bucky huffed a humorless sound— a mix of a scoff and a sigh. “You’ve changed it four times. You’d think I’d be out cold for a week by now.”

Your lips turned into a frowned.

“You’re perfect,” he added suddenly, urgently. “You… you’re good at this—at what you do. But that mission… I…”

He looked up at you, and for a moment you saw the wreckage behind his eyes. “I think I’m the one that’s broken.”

You swallowed hard, the words lodging in your throat like a stone. All of your vows, all of your promises to never intervene with magic in the shop, they started to fray at the edges. He wasn’t just tired, he was unraveling.

And you were standing here with shelves full of herbs and nothing that could hold him together.

That’s when you felt it: the  ache in your chest shifting into guilt, like glass under skin.

You turned away.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, going to the back room, where you store all your stock and closing the door. 

Fuck, today, he looked broken.

You froze, hands trembling slightly over the apothecary jars, and your mind went to your apartment that was just across the street. Upstairs. Your real workbench was there. The hidden shelf with dried mystic root. The moon water. The preserved glass vials with hope tinctures and dream oil and truth dust.

“No,” you whispered to yourself. “No, no, no.”

But then you remembered at Bucky again—shoulders hunched, head bowed, fingers twitching ever so slightly—and your resolve shattered.

“…Just this once.”

You leaned down toward Fig, who had hopped closer on his perch and was watching you with keen eyes.

“I need to go home for a second,” you said, pulling off your apron. “Keep him company, okay? Chirp a little. He likes it.”

Fig flapped once and gave a peep of approval. 

You slipped out the back door and jogged across the street to your apartment above the bakery. 

Inside, you didn’t light a single lamp. 

You moved directly to the old armoire that served as your private altar, opening the false panel and pulling out the worn wooden box. Inside: the forbidden things. The ones you kept under lock and key. Your grandmother’s spoon, etched with runes. The jar of dried starblossom petals. A tiny, sealed vial of liquid desire.

You were going to infuse his latest tea blend with… magic.

It wasn’t that it was dark magic. It wasn’t evil. It was just… potent. And dangerous if used carelessly. You had vowed never to use your craft in the shop. 

Never to enchant something as intimate as tea.

But you remembered the first time Bucky came in, Since then, he’d been a constant.

And now he was in trouble, and this was the only way you could help. 

You whispered the spell as your fingers worked fast, blending more herbs with practiced care: blue lotus for dreams, rosehips for warmth, passionfruit for clarity, and just a bit of the liquid desire. 

The spell would draw from his desire, not yours, showing him not what he feared… but what he wanted most— perhaps peace. Or comfort. Perhaps he wanted to be back in the forties. Maybe he just wanted a life on the farm. 

You closed your eyes and sealed it with breath, steadying the tremble in your hands.

“Just this once,” you whispered aloud.

And you were going to tell him, right?

—

When you stepped back into the shop, it felt warmer. Or maybe that was your guilt heating up your skin.

Bucky looked up from where he sat, with Fig perched on his shoulder and nuzzled his hair. You paused, surprised—and not surprised at all. Fig never did that to anyone but you.

“I told him not to get too attached,” you said softly, setting the new cup on his table.

“Well,” Bucky replied, a faint smile pulling at his lips, “I’m getting attached, too.”

To you or the bird, you weren’t sure. 

You watched him look down at his hands as you handed him the pouch. 

It was darker than your usual blend, its surface flecked with starlight-like shimmer. You hoped he wouldn’t ask.

But Bucky just leaned forward, hands clutching the bag. 

You took a deep breath, readying yourself for the entire I’m actually a witch confession, but then he said… 

“I don’t even wanna know what’s in it,” he muttered. “I just want peace.”

Your fingers brushed his as you sat beside him. “Are you sure?”

Bucky nodded.

You hesitated. Then, said. “It’s on the house today.”

He looked up.

“…Thanks,” he said. “Really. You—”

His gulped like he wanted to say something else, but the words got stuck.. “You always know what to do.”

You watched him slip the tea into his coat pocket, rising slowly.

The bell above the door gave that same gentle chime as he left.

—

That night, in the new Avengers Tower, on the other side of town from your tea shop, Bucky sat on his bed and drank the tea.

The first time in weeks, his body eased against the sheets instead of bracing for war.

And when he dreamed, it wasn’t of screams or steel or blood.

He dreamed of a cosy shop with a parakeet singing in the corner. 

—

You were still tying your apron when the door burst open the next morning.

The bell above the tea shop was a frantic, startled chime — not the usual gentle ring. Before you even looked up, you knew it must  be him.

Fuck. Did he know? Could he tell something was… different?

You turned just in time to see Bucky push through the doorway like he’d run the entire way here. He was breathless and flushed. His hair was messy, jacket unzipped, like he hadn’t even thought to fix himself before coming straight here.

“Bucky—?” you began, eyebrows lifted as Fig flapped his wings in greeting.

He didn’t stop walking until he was at the counter.

“It worked.”

You froze, one hand still on the apron’s tie. “What?”

“The tea,” he said. “It… worked. Last night. I—I actually slept for the first time in… weeks.

There was relief in his voice.

Your heart clenched behind your ribs.

He let out a shaky breath, glancing toward the floor like he didn’t quite believe he was saying it out loud. “Usually I either have nightmares or… nothing. But last night, I… I dreamed.”

He looked up at you, and your throat went dry.

“I dreamed of here,” he said softly. “Of you.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. What?

You nodded slowly. “I’m… glad it helped.”

But you knew exactly what that meant.

The spell you used hadn’t just offered comfort. It hadn’t simply calmed his nerves or quieted his thoughts. It had shown him his deepest desire to get rid of the terrors.

And he dreamed of you.

“I-I don’t mean to be weird,” he said suddenly. “I just…,” he added, so softly you almost missed it. “Didn’t want to wake up.”

You should have told him then. You should have told him what you’d done. That you’d bent your own rules for him. That you’d taken a tiny vial of liquid desire and dropped it into his cup.

That his dream wasn't a coincidence.

But your words wouldn’t come out past your throat.

Because a part of you was afraid that if he knew, he’d doubt the dream. That he’d think it was a trick. That he wouldn’t believe that what he saw was already true.

So instead, you forced your lips into a tight smile and said, “That’s good.”

“You were behind the counter in the dream. Laughing,” he said. “You were wearing that pink cardigan you always say you’re gonna throw out.”

You blinked, unaware he remembered your little neither-here-nor-there conversations. “I… still have it.”

He smiled faintly. “Fig was there, too. He kept trying to eat my scone.”

Fig gave a soft chirp and fluttered down to land on Bucky’s shoulder again, completely unbothered.

Bucky huffed a surprised breath, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Traitor,” you muttered fondly toward Fig.

Bucky shifted on his feet.

“Can I come back tonight?” he asked.

You smiled, but hesitated. “Of course.”

—

That night, just after closing the shop and wiping down the counters, you stared at your phone.

Bucky had said he’d be back. He wanted to come back.

And you—being you—had gone and messed everything up with your damn heart and your emergency vial of dream-altering magic.

So instead of texting what you wanted (which was: come back, sit with me, let me explain the dream wasn’t real but also definitely was)...

…you typed: Not feeling great. Raincheck?

You hit send before immediately grabbing the emergency sling ring from under your floorboard, called to Fig with a sharp whistle, and opened a portal to Kamar-Taj.

The sky through the portal was blazing orange at dusk. Fig fluttered through first with a defiant chirp.

You stepped into the cool stone corridor just as a familiar voice groaned from around the corner.

“Speak of the devil.”

Stephen Strange rounded the archway, Wong at his side with a tray of your tea.

You blinked. “Why were you talking about me?”

“We need to place an order.” Wong held up a scroll and payment. “Three jars of moonstilled chrysanthemum, two of dreamroot, and that thing with the dried violets that makes people cry for two hours.”

“Oh, right. Cryleaf blend. Yeah, I’m low, too. Bad harvest year.”

“Well double the payment if you can get it done,” Strange promised, already walking away.

You didn’t follow him immediately. You were still trying to breathe past the knot in your chest.

“I need a hypothetical ethics consult,” you said suddenly.

Wong stopped and raised a brow. “Oh.”

You followed them both into the dim library room they used for absolutely everything, where Fig landed atop a shelf and immediately started pecking at a crystal ball.

You dropped into a floor cushion, rubbed your eyes, and began.

“Let’s say… hypothetically… someone who runs a completely magic-free tea shop made a promise to never use enchantments on the drinks they serve.”

Wong was already frowning. Strange narrowed his eyes.

“But let’s say—still hypothetically—that someone they care about is clearly not okay. We’re talking not sleeping for weeks, barely holding it together, that type of stuff.”

“I already know where this is going,” Wong muttered.

“And so the hypothetical tea shop owner makes a completely irrational, heart-dumb, reckless decision and enchants one tea blend with dream magic. The kind that reveals the drinker’s deepest desire and blocks out trauma-based nightmares.”

Strange folded his arms. “Uh huh.”

“And,” you went on, your voice getting smaller, “let’s say the person drinks it, sleeps peacefully for the first time in weeks, wakes up saying they dreamed of… the person who gave him the blend.”

“Still sounds hypothetical,” Wong said sarcastically.

You stared at your hands. “Is that unethical?”

Strange stared at you. “That’s it? That’s the ethical dilemma?”

“I enchanted his tea, Stephen. I interfered with his subconscious.”

“You gave a traumatized super-soldier a warm nap and a vision board,” he deadpanned. “You didn’t scramble his brain or bind his will to a blood pact.”

“How did you—?” You furrowed your eyebrows, unaware your personal life was their business. 

“You are one of the best potions witch in the northern hemisphere,” Wong deadpanned, “do you really think we don’t keep tabs on your more… influential customers?”?l

“Fine,” you snapped, “but back to the question—“

“He’ll be fine,” Strange dismissed.

You frowned. “But he didn’t—“

“Did you cast an obedience charm?”

“No!”

“Corruption sigil?”

“No!”

“Memory trap?”

“NO!”

“Then,” he said, leaning back with an insufferably casual smile, “it sounds like you did what every good magic-user has done at least once: you broke your own rule to save someone you care about.”

You stared at him. “So… it’s fine?”

“No. It’s weird.”

Wong agreed. “You witches are odd sometimes.”

You scowled. “That’s not helpful.”

“I’m not here to be helpful. I’m here to stop Dormammu and make sure no one drops reality into a blender.” He waved his hand. “This? Not even in the top fifty ethical dilemmas I’ve heard this week.”

“It feels icky!” you said, frustrated. “I didn’t mean to influence him!”

Wong raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think a man like James Barnes is so fragile he’d fall in love because of a dream?“

You opened your mouth. “But—”

Strange held up a hand. “Let me guess. You’ve read three books on ethical divination, one essay by an excommunicated greenwitch, and now you’re spiraling.”

You blinked. “…Yes.”

Wong shoved extra currency for the order it into your hands.

“Tell him the truth if you feel bad, but don’t act like you’ve done dark magic just because you caught feelings.”

You stared. “I knew I should’ve joined a coven. At least they’d have a Code.”

Strange rolled his eyes. “Please. Most covens barely agree on how to bless water. One time I watched three hedge witches almost fistfight over which moon phase was best for making lavender oil.”

From your shoulder, Fig gave a loud, scolding chirp.

You glanced at him.

“What?” you muttered. “It was just a passing thought—”

He chirped again, this time louder. His little clawed feet gripped your shoulder tighter.

Wong chuckled. “Sounds like your familiar’s insulted.”

“M’sorry,” you muttered, giving Fig a sideways look. “I didn’t mean to imply I needed anyone else but you, bud.”

Fig gave a dignified huff and fluffed his feathers.

“I wasn’t actually going to join one!” you hissed.

Fig preened pointedly.

“I just panicked.”

He chirped again as you said your goodbyes opened the portal back to your shop.

—

Later that night, you returned to your apartment.

You half expected Bucky to be waiting outside, but was disappointed when there was only the empty street and the patter of rain on cobblestone. 

Inside, the tea ingredients sat untouched on your back shelf, tucked away again.

You made yourself a cup of tea and sat with Fig in the dim shop light, wondering if he was still dreaming of you, or if the magic had already faded.

But still a thought whispered. If you were his greatest desire… what would yours be?

You hadn't asked that question before.

Not seriously.

Because you didn't want the answer.

But now you stood, and walked to the back shelf where the last vial of desire sat sealed under moonlit paper, humming faintly with dormant power.

No.

Nope. 

Maybe?

Fuck.

Just this once.

You quickly dropped the same dose into your tea and casted the spell.

You carried the cup back to your seat, Fig watching you from the counter with glassy eyes.

“This is dumb,” you whispered aloud. “This is so dumb.”

Fig let out a chirp. Not scolding, but more like, Then don’t do it. But if you’re gonna, stop whining and sip.

You sughed before raising the cup and drinking.

—

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

But when you opened your eyes… the world was a warm amber, flickering like candle glow.

You were standing behind the tea shop counter, apron tied snugly around your waist, the faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla in the air. Fig was perched beside the cash box.

And there he was.

Bucky.

Sitting in his usual spot, back slightly hunched, cradling a steaming cup in both hands. He was in a navy sweater, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his metal hand glinting faintly in the light. He was looking at you like… you were the best part of his day.

And in the dream, you weren’t hiding.

You smiled. And he smiled back.

—

You woke up on your bed with a gasp.

Fig flapped in surprise, his wings fluttering.

You sat forward on the couch, pressing a trembling hand to your chest, breathing coming fast.

Fig chirped, and he knew… you had your answer.

—

The next morning, you had an early customer who ringed the bell in five minutes before opening. 

Even before you turned around… you knew it was him. 

Here goes nothing.

You expected Bucky to slink in, like he usually did. 

Instead, he stood just inside the door with a bouquet of flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.

They were… wild flowers — your favourite — wrapped in recycled newspaper like he’d tried to make it not a big deal.

Oh. 

He looked… terrified.

His hair was still a little damp from the morning drizzle, jacket open over a plain black henley, boots tracking faint footprints on your floor.

“Hey,” he greeted.

“Hey.”

“Can I…” he started, “can I talk to you?”

You nodded once. “Of course.”

He approached slowly, as if he was afraid to break a fragile thing. Maybe himself.

“I wasn’t gonna come,” he admitted, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Did a bit of thinking and… I was scared I freaked you out.”

Your heart thudded painfully. “You didn’t, I promise.”

He looked at you with that wide-open gaze that always undid you.

“I kept thinking about it,” he said. “About why I dreamed of you.”

Your fingers curled against the counter. Fig, on his perch behind you, let out the softest warning trill.

Bucky went on, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I thought maybe you… I don’t know. I… I thought maybe I’ve been seeing too much of you.”

You opened your mouth—but Fig flapped a hard THWIP of wings.

“But then I realised,” he admitted sheepishly. “I could never have too much of you.”

You met his eyes. “You… what?”

He hesitated. “I think… I’ve felt like this for a while now.” He lifted the flowers slightly. It was awkward, sweet, almost bashful.

“I don’t want it to just be a dream,” he said. “I want it to be real. I want us to be real. So…”

He took a deep breath.

“Would you maybe go out with me?”

For a good five seconds, you only stared at him.

You should tell him.

You almost did.

But then Fig let out a pointed chirp from behind you.

Not yet, he seemed to say. 

So, you smiled—nervous, but sincere.

“Sure,” you said, trying to play it off as casual. 

His brows lifted slightly, like he hadn’t believed you’d say it. “Yeah?”

You stepped around the counter, closing the space between you. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And for the first time since you met him, you saw the weight on his chest loosening.

He held out the flowers, finally, with a shy smile. “I’m not great at this… anymore.”

“You’re doing just fine.” You chuckled, taking the bouquet from his hands. It was wild and imperfect and beautiful, just like your magic.

—

The day say he took you out, it was raining again.

Thankfully, it was the good kind, the kind that gave the streets that shimmer like everything’s been kissed by silver. You’d always loved nights like this, when the world felt like a mystic secret.

Bucky had offered to pick you up at your place. 

You told him to meet you at the shop instead. It felt right. It felt like you now had gone full circle.

When he arrived, you were already waiting in the doorway with a tiny umbrella, saying goodbye to Fig, who was tucked into his little cosy corner. He wouldn’t shut up, not until Bucky knocked on the door, and you were convinced he sensed what kind of night this would be.

Bucky looked unfairly good. He adorned simp clothes — a dark sweater and stormy-blue jacket he’d worn a few times — and that nervous smile you had come to crave.

He held out a hand.

“You ready?”

You nodded. 

—

The place you chose for your first date wasn’t fancy.

It was a tucked-away little bistro down the block, with candles flickering in mismatched holders and tables close enough to each other to hear laughter, but not close enough to interrupt it. You were seated by a window, and Bucky was across from you. 

Going on a date with Bucky felt daunting at first. But now… that you were actually in it… it felt natural.

You had both eaten, talked, laughed a little — but it wasn’t until the plates had been cleared and your dessert had arrived that the room shifted.

Bucky had been watching you all night.

Not in a way that made you feel exposed, but like he was learning you. Like he was memorizing every little expression, every gesture.

Like he wanted to know you.

Your fingers curled around the ceramic mug in your hands.

“Can I tell you something?” you said, voice quiet.

He leaned in slightly. “Of course.”

You hesitated, before looked him straight in the eyes.

“You said you dreamed of me. Of… us.”

His mouth twitched. It was not quite a smile, not quite not. “Yeah.”

“It was… because of tea I gave you.”

“Worked like magic,” he confirmed, almost wry.

“Bucky, I’m trying to tell you…” You swallowed hard. Fuck, here goes nothing. “That it wasn’t a normal blend.”

The silence that followed was short enough, but it made your heartbeat pick up. His brow ticked, and he set his desert spoon down carefully. “Okay…”

“I don’t normally do this,” you started, sighing. “I never do this. I have rules. You know I make regular blends—“

“Regular?” Bucky chimed in, furrowing his eyebrows. 

“—for sleep, anxiety, energy,” you continued anyway, “but that night, you said that you hadn’t slept in weeks. and I—” your voice caught, “—I panicked. I didn’t have anything in the shop that would worked that I didn’t try already.”

The night flashed before your eyes — the hollow look in his eyes, the way his voice had been almost brittle.

“So I… ran across the street to my apartment. And I used a spell.”

Bucky blinked, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “…A spell. Like actual magic.”

“Yes.”

You could see him process it, in the way a faint crease formed between his brows, the way his eyes stayed locked on yours.

His voice came quieter. “You didn’t tell me.”

You felt the blood rush to your ears. “You… didn’t want to know.” You explained, looking down in guilt. “Remember? That night, you said you didn’t want to know what was in it.”

“It sounds like you put something in my head,” he said, not unkind, but blunt.

Your stomach turned. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

“It’s a spell meant to ease nightmares. It doesn’t control, doesn’t twist. It just… reveals.”

He sat back slightly, studying you. You could see the flicker of wariness in his eyes, and it made your chest ache.

“Reveals what?”

Fuck.

“Their… their greatest desire,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Oh.

He leaned back, his expression warping. It wasn’t anger. But you couldn’t quite place where it fit. 

“And what I saw in the dream… was you.”

“Yes.”

The candlelight flickered between you, catching the edge of his metal knuckles where his hand rested on the table.

He ran a hand over his face. “You’re an actual witch,” he said finally, looping back to the fact.

“…Yes.”

“Like, sorcery?”

“No. Sorcery’s learned. I was born with it. I work with potions.”

He shook his head, staring down at the table. “I should’ve guessed. Wong’s walked out of your shop before. And Fig… I swear he talks sometimes.”

Your nodded. “He does.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “You know I’ve had my mind messed with before. That dream… it didn’t feel wrong. But it was still… I don’t know. I don’t like thinking someone else had a hand in it.”

You stared at him. “You think I made you see me?”

“I think you gave me something that made me see something I didn’t know I wanted,” he said quietly. 

Your chest tightened. “It can’t create anything that isn’t already there.”

He looked at you like he wanted to believe you but didn’t know if he should.

“And you?” he asked. “If you drank it, what would you see?”

You hesitated. “…I did.”

His brows lifted slightly.

“And?”

“I saw you.”

That landed between you like a dropped stone disturbing a waveless ocean.

Bucky’s eyes darted away. His shoulders shifted restlessly. “I… I gotta go.”

Your stomach dropped. “Bucky—”

“It’s not—” He stood abruptly, fumbling for his jacket. “It’s not that I’m... I just… I need to think.”

The chair legs scraped so against the worn wood floor as he moved back.

“Okay,” you said quietly.

He hesitated a moment longer, looking at you. Then he nodded once, like he was answering a question only he’d asked himself, and turned toward the door.

You just sat there in the glow of candlelight, your hands curled around the cold desert spoon.

—

Bucky didn’t knock as he reached the 177A Bleecker Street. 

He figured if Strange really didn’t want visitors, the Sanctum Sanctorum would’ve swallowed him whole the second he stepped on the stoop.

Instead, the door creaked open on its own, and there was the sorcerer himself, one brow arched in that perpetual look of annoyed judgment.

“Barnes,” Strange said dryly. “You’re a long way from Brooklyn.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Needed to… talk to someone who’d get it.”

“‘It’ being…?”

Bucky hesitated. “…Magic.”

That actually earned him a flicker of genuine curiosity from Strange. “Alright.”

The Sanctum smelled faintly of incense and something older, like paper and storms. Strange led him down a long hall and into a high-ceilinged library, gesturing to a pair of mismatched chairs in front of a low table.

Strange said, flicked his wrist to summon a cup. “You like Earl Grey?”

Bucky followed him inside, glancing around the vast space. “Not much of a tea guy lately.”

“Oh, right,” Strange said lightly, leading him toward the library while sipping the brew. “You’ve already been drinking something far more potent.”

Bucky stopped in his tracks. “…You know?”

Strange turned with the faintest smirk on his mouth. “Barnes, I know exactly who runs that little shop you’ve been visiting. I also know exactly what kind of magic she works with, who’s been there. She’s supplied Kamar-Taj for years. Her blends are high-quality, magical or not. Wong swears by her migraine remedy. I’d trust her brewing over most trained potion masters I’ve met.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “So you know she—”

“Gave you a desire spell?” Strange cut in. “Yes. And judging by the fact that you’re here, I’d say it worked.”

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “I saw her. In the dream.”

“You’re afraid it was compulsion.” Strange said, like he’d been expecting this. Bucky’s jaw tightened. “…Yeah. After what I’ve been through—”

“I know,” Strange cut in gently. “But no. It wasn’t compulsion.”

Bucky looked up. “How can you be so sure?”

Strange leaned back in his chair, watching him with that unsettling kind of stillness. “Because she came to Kamar-Taj the day after she found out you saw her. She was rattled. Wouldn’t stop apologizing. Wanted to know if it was unethical. Told me she never, ever uses magic in her shop. That she only did it because you looked like you looked like shit. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”

Bucky froze. “…She said that?”

Strange nodded. “She didn’t want to change you. She didn’t even want to risk revealing herself to you. She just—” He gestured loosely, as if the right word was somewhere in the air. “—couldn’t stand to watch you suffer like that.”

Bucky swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the tea cup.

“What she used,” Strange continued, “wasn’t suggestion. It wasn’t manipulation. It’s a mirror. It brings forward what’s already there — a truth you’ve either ignored or haven’t admitted to yourself. It reveals. And revelation, in this case, is a gift.”

Bucky’s brows drew together. “So it was me.”

“It was always you,” Strange said simply. “She just cleared the fog.”

Bucky stared at the steam curling from his tea. The memory of that dream — the sound of your laugh, the warmth in your eyes — burned fresh in his mind. He’d told himself it was too vivid, too convenient. But if Strange was right…

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low.

“Barnes,” Strange said, faintly exasperated, “I’ve seen enough true desire reflections to know one when I hear about it. You think I’d be this calm if she’d tampered with your mind? I’d have half the Masters here dismantling every floorboard in her shop, and she’d lose both her shop licenses and the potion license.”

That startled a small, reluctant smirk out of Bucky. “…Guess you would.”

Strange’s expression softened just slightly. “You trust her, don’t you?”

Bucky looked down at his hands and nodded.

Strange sipped his tea, watching him. “I assume she didn’t tell you because she knows your history. And, if I may, she’s probably terrified of hurting you.”

Bucky’s voice was quiet. “She was.”

Strange tilted his head. “So… are you going to let this stop you from being honest with her now?”

Bucky was quiet for a moment, then stood up abruptly. “…I gotta go.”

Strange didn’t stop him. He just smiled faintly, as if this had been the plan all along. “Send Fig my regards.”

Bucky paused. “You know about Fig?”

“Of course,” Strange said with a wave of his hand. “That bird glares at me every time I visit. He thinks I’m trouble.”

Bucky huffed, almost laughing as he pushed the door open.

—

Bucky didn’t go back to the shop immediately, even if his body wanted to.

He told himself it was because he was busy with mission reports, training schedules, and repairs to his gear but really, he was avoiding you. 

He walked the length of Manhattan twice the next day with his hands in his pockets, keeping his head down. The streets were loud, crowded, and full of people brushing past without a second glance. It should have been easy to get lost in it, but no matter where he went, his mind kept circling back to the same thing: why you hadn’t texted or called. 

You probably wanted to give him some space. 

So on the first night, he didn’t dream at all. Just tossed and turned until dawn, chasing sleep that wouldn’t stick.

—

The second day, he tried distracting himself.

He hit the gym, hard. He ran on the treadmill for a run until his lungs burned and the machine short-circuited from overuse. He did all his laundry. He cooked for the first time in weeks. It was a simple scrambled eggs and toast, but still ended up not touching most of it away.

When Yelena and Bob brew their teas, their custom blends that you sold them, and wondered if they knew you were magical. 

Probably not. 

The truth was, he wasn’t mad at you the way he thought he’d be.

It was the memory of the look on your face when you’d confessed. You were not defensive, not smug — guilty. And perhaps, he realised after a bit of thinking, that what hurt most of all was how you thought you had to hide your identity from him. 

By nightfall, he’d found himself outside your shop without meaning to. The lights were off, the CLOSED sign swaying gently in the summer breeze. 

He didn’t knock, knowing you’d be in bed by now. So he just stood there for a few minutes, staring at the faint reflection of his own tired face in the glass, before walking away.

—

The third day, he gave in.

The tin of tea you’d given him, the one from that night, was still in his cupboard. He’d been avoiding it like the plague, but now he set it on the counter, staring at the label you’d written in a looping script.

It felt strange, making it again. He’d seen you brew tea so many times, the careful measure of leaves, the way you swirled the water just right, but he never really brewed it like you. 

It was never… just right. 

Still, when the steam rose, it smelled like your shop. 

It smelled like… safety.

Bucky wrapped his hands around the mug, sipped, and sat at the shared kitchen table in the new avengers tower.

Within a few minutes of finishing the tea, he walked back to his room. He didn’t fight the warmth creeping in.

—

In the dream, he was standing in your shop again, the light golden through the windows, Fig chattering softly from his perch. 

You were behind the counter, head bent over a notebook, and when you looked up, your whole face lit up like you’d been waiting for him.

You were brewing a potion for Strange, completely in your element, while Fig greeted him. 

—

When he woke, he sighed in content before he could stop himself. 

Fuck.

The dream hadn’t been a trick. He knew that now.

Magical or not, he’d missed you. He missed that feeling of being wanted without needing to earn it, that place felt safe just because you were there.

By the time he set the mug in the sink that morning he’d already decided that he wasn’t going to let four days stretch into five.

—

Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about you throughout the day.

And if you were really his own greatest desire, then… hell.

It took him the entire day, though, to actually go through with meeting you. 

—

When he did decide it was time, your shop was already closed. 

So he walked across the street where he vaguely knew where you lived.

He didn’t know your exact apartment number. You’d never given it to him, and he’d never asked. But he remembered you saying once that you lived “across the street, in the building with the green awning.”

The lobby was quiet. Bucky found the elevator, pressed the button, and stared at the rows of doors when it dinged open.

Second floor. 

No names on the mail slots. Just numbers.

Great.

He started with the first one on the left.

He knocked once, waited and got no answer.

Second door — same thing.

Third door, he heard footsteps, but it was an elderly man with a newspaper, blinking at him in confusion before Bucky apologised.

By the fourth door, Bucky was starting to think maybe he’d have to knock on every single one in the building. 

He lifted his hand…

…and something small and peach streaked past his ear.

Bucky looked, catching sight of a familiar flash of feathers before it landed on the hallway railing.

“Fig?”

The parakeet chirped impatiently before taking off again, fluttering halfway down the hall before stopping to glance over its shoulder at him.

Bucky frowned. “You want me to follow you?”

Fig chirped and waited just long enough for Bucky to catch up before darting toward the far end of the hallway, and up a couple flights of stairs before finally settling on a specific door and tapping his beak against it like he was in on the plan.

Bucky stared. “You… showed me the way.”

Fig seemed to say, duh.

He raised his hand and knocked.

You opened the door in an oversized sweater, hair messy, blinking like you’d just changed into cosy home clothes.

“Bucky?”

He had a whole speech planned — something about thinking things through, about needing to talk, about not wanting to leave things hanging between you — but it all died in his throat the moment you looked at him like that.

“I… uh,” he started, then glanced down the hall toward Fig, who was still perched like a tiny feathered soldier. “Your bird sold you out.”

You blinked, then looked past him. “Really?”

The parakeet chirped triumphantly.

“Traitor,” you muttered at him, but when you looked back at Bucky, your voice was gentler. “Why… are you here?”

He shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “I drank the tea again.”

Your brow furrowed. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “And I still saw you. And… I missed you.”

For a second, you didn’t say anything.

“I had to knock on four doors before Fig found me,” he said with the faintest trace of a smile. “Was ready to go through the whole building.”

Your brows lifted. “You were going to knock on all thirty four apartments?”

“Would’ve found you eventually.” His voice was certain, and you had the feeling he meant more than just your apartment.

“I… didn’t want to think I needed magic to want you.” His jaw tightened briefly before he shook his head. “Turns out, I didn’t. I already did.”

You didn’t realise you’d been holding your breath until it left you in a rush. “…Bucky—”

“I’m glad you told me,” he said. 

For a moment, neither of you moved. 

Fig chirped once, as if in approval. Then, as if even he understood, took off into the night without a backward glance.

Then Bucky smiled, knowing Fig had given the two of you privacy, and stepped closer. “So… can I come in? Maybe stay awhile?”

Of course he did. 

—

Five months later…

At first, Bucky thought it was part of a dream — a faint tug at his hair, an insistent pressure at his shoulder. Then came a high-pitched noise he thought his brain had conjured up.

Then it happened again.

He cracked one eye open. The dawn light was shining through the curtains, and sitting on the pillow two inches from his face was Fig with his feathers puffed, letting out the same shrill little chirp again and again, like an alarm clock with wings.

“…No,” Bucky muttered, rolling over and dragging the blanket higher. “Go away.”

But Fig wasn’t having it. He hopped onto Bucky’s shoulder, gave him a surprisingly firm nip, then chirped louder.

Bucky groaned. “Kid, it’s not even nine.”

From beside him, came a muffled laugh. 

You were half-buried in pillows when your head just enough to see your parakeet perched proudly atop the former Winter Soldier, who looked far more beleaguered by a six-inch bird than by any mission briefing.

“Morning,” you said sleepily.

That got Bucky moving. 

He turned immediately, pressed a slow, unhurried kiss to your lips, then mumbled against your skin, “Much better alarm clock.”

You smiled, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You’re supposed to be up.”

“Not if I don’t wanna be.” He tucked himself against your side, burying his face in your shoulder like he could hide from the world. “Why’s Fig got it out for me this time?”

Fig chirped something emphatic.

You stretched, still smiling. “He says John Walker sent him.”

That made Bucky sit up, blinking. “…What?”

“Mmhm.” You yawned, brushing your nose against his. “Fig’s just doing his job. The one you said he should do.”

Bucky cracked an eye at the bird. “He’s been doin’ it a little too well. I can’t get away with anything these days.”

Fig puffed up, chirping smugly, and hopped off the bed. You stretched, rolling onto your back.

To be fair, Fig knows the route to the Tower better than any GPS by now.

Because before Fig became Bucky’s wake-up call, he’d been your little courier. After that night, you’d send love letters, and Fig would ferry the between the tea shop and the Tower. 

You could’ve just texted, of course, but it was different with physical notes. It was tangible, permanent, and Bucky loved it because he could tuck in a pocket and reread on long nights.

The others at the Tower teased him relentlessly for it. Alexei once caught him tucking one of your notes into the chest pocket of his jacket before a briefing, and the cutesy-laughter didn’t stop for weeks. 

Not that he cared.

Still, that’s how the team had learned what you were, too. Somewhere between the delicate wax seals, the faint scent of herbs clinging to the envelopes, and Fig swooping in and out like he owned the place, they figured you were a witch. 

Oh that, and Strange barged in while Ava and Bob was in one day with a little dragon-like creature, begging for a magical anaesthetic mix that could knock it out enough for Strange to surgically remove a magical thorn from its spine. 

And oddly, once the word was out, it wasn’t a scandal. Everyone just sorta accepted it. You supposed that had seen weirder things. 

From the bedpost, Fig let out another bossy chirp.

“Living room, Fig,” you called gently. “We’ll be out in a bit.”

The little bird gave a final huff (or as close as a bird could manage) and fluttered off, leaving your bedroom.

Bucky shifted closer again, wrapping you in his arms and resting his chin on your shoulder. “Y’know,” he started. “We could use a witch on missions.”

You snorted, swatting his chest. “Oh sure. What am I gonna do, force-feed an evil secret agent truth potion?”

“Could work,” he said, deadpan.

You gave him a playful look. “I have a shop to open in an hour.”

“Mean,” he whispered, but he didn’t let go of you.

You brushed your hand through his hair fondly. “Clingy.”

“Yeah, well,” he admitted, not a single filter between his mind and his mouth as his metal arm rubbed gentled circles on your hip, “I love you.”

The words landed between you so naturally that you almost missed it. 

This was the first time he ever said it.

You blinked at him. “What?”

He blinked back, suddenly aware of what he’d said. But then he nodded. “I… I do love you.”

Oh. 

Wow.

“I love you too.” You smiled

And a grin emerged across his face. It was boyish and almost shy, and it was worth every bit of the waiting.

He kissed you again, nothing rushed, before Fig’s chirp echoed from the living room.

“Your alarm clock is impatient,” you muttered against his lips.

Bucky groaned into your mouth. “Can’t even enjoy sayin’ it for the first time without him chirping in.”

Fig chirped again but this time he flew out of the window, as if saying, I’ll tell Walker you’re going to be late again. 

As his hands found your hips, you realised, boy, was he going to be very late. 

—end.

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Masterlist

General Bucky taglist:

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

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

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @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 @fuckybarnes @rlphunter @yn-stories-are-my-life 

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder @natalia42069 @silverdoragon @juliet-is-the-sun12 @nightlight486