i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you meme lord shuri and peter. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you resurrected, shamelessly flirty pietro. i miss you clueless, socially inept vision. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you cheeky reader who always called fury by his first name. i miss you super nanny phil coulson. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you 😔😔😔
ok ok ok yall i swear im writing here and there for “like a bitch” pt 3, but bear with me i’m moving and unfortunately engaging with other big girl responsibilities!! (everyone boo!!)
A/N: Thank you for all of the love for Professor Barnes, his grumpy ass appreciates it. His RateMyProfessor rating is still low, though. Feedback is appreciated!! If you want in on the taglist for the last part please send an ask!!! Replied are difficult to keep track of!! Second to last part, y'all! It's been a ride. As always, this was proofread like maybe half a time.
Pairing: Biology Professor!Bucky x Camgirl!Student!Reader
Warnings: drinking, cam girl shit, Bucky is kind of a little shit (what's new?), reader is a little shit! Sam is Sam.
Words: 5k ish
Summary: Professor Barnes is the absolute worst type of professor. He doesn’t know how to teach, he wants you to already know all the answers. And you… poor you, living for academic validation.
You'd think you left footprints with the way you sped out of his office. Barely any of the words he said to you were sticking, all you could think of is that you'd finally put a face on Brooklyn_1917, and of course it had to be the face you were picturing every time you touched yourself.
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.”
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.
Summary : Bucky Barnes has a crush on a tea shop owner. But is she really just a tea shop owner?
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x witch! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant, post-Thunderbolts. Magic. Cursing. Nightmares, trauma. Bucky lives in the New Avengers tower. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Word count : 11.5k
Note : I’m on vacation and just managed to finish this story!!! Will start posting more regularly once I get back, but enjoy!!!
It had been raining a steady drizzle all afternoon.
You were rearranging your loose-leaf tins on the shelf behind the counter— your labels were hand-drawn, organised not by alphabet or herb, but by energy. Fig, your small parakeet, was perched lazily on your shoulder, his little peach belly rising and falling as he dozed. A few regulars had come in earlier and left with different tea blends, the usual murmur of jazz from your record player in the background, and now the shop had been eerily quiet for the last thirty minutes.
Then the bell above the door jingled.
That’s when you saw him.
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.”
“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.
warnings: these bitches still need therapy!! Of course these mis are still fighting. enemies to uhhhhhh good question! Use of weed and mentions of drinking. you could literally cut the tension with a knife. high and messy reader, irritated to death bucky. he's so down bad for you. a little jealous bucky. no use of y/n. Never proofread but I'm sure we're all expecting that from me!
summary: set pre-tfatws but post-endgame. high words are sober thoughts!
a/n: there was so much love on the first chapter, all of you are literally so sweet. sorry for taking so long to post this, I legitimately had absolutely no intentions of continuing this as a series but I'm kinda loving them so we'll see where this takes me! also I'm very new to using Tumblr and I'm a 20 yr old grandma when it comes to technology so pretty please bare with me as I slowly get this blog running! thank you for all of your kind words and support, I could cry <33. also I think I'm gonna cap this series at 3 parts :D.
wc: 2,860
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You hadn’t slept alone in a week. It had been a week since the stabbing. A week since Bucky let you leave the apartment. A week since you felt like you had any kind of freedom. The soldier was up your ass for a lack of better terms. He was practically glued to you. He didn’t let you cook, didn’t let you shower without him standing guard outside of the door. You couldn’t fucking stand it.
For the past six nights, the soldier stuck to sleeping on your bedroom floor with a pillow much too flat to be comfortable and a blanket thin enough to pass for a fast food napkin.You wondered if he had even slept at all, you leaned closer to no considering he’d knock out every day around lunchtime or after he’d come back from sparring at the tower. What he counted as a defensive act of service was your personal hell. You couldn’t count how many fuck off’s, fuck you’s, and fuck out of here’s were said within the past week. All you knew was that you craved your privacy.
Every night was the same. You helped yourself to a warm shower, making sure to avoid your bandaged wound, you brewed a sleepy-time tea, and nearly missed stepping on the slab of metal and muscle on your bedroom floor.
“It’s not safe for you to stay alone.” Bucky grumbled, half fluffing his pillow to no avail. He didn’t spare any eye contact nor did he expect to receive any, he was firm in his decision.
“What? They think I have another ‘free slice’ card?” You mouthed back, pulling the bedsheets up to your chest. “I’m a trained assassin for fucks sake.” You followed.
“Where was all that training when they stabbed you?”
“Fuck you, Barnes.”
You expected him to disappear after night one. On night two, he tagged along behind you, pillow under one arm with his thin and willowy blanket hauled over his shoulder. On night three, you gave him a pillow from your bed, telling him his head was gonna end up flat if he kept sleeping on his sorry excuse of a pillow. Night three was another argument as well as night four. Night five, you purposefully stepped on him. He grabbed your ankle with his metal hand, squeezing just enough for a bit of discomfort followed with a “quit it.”
On night six, when Bucky said he was going out to get drinks with Sam and a few others, you could have cried tears of joy. Finally, you’d have a night to decompress without a gravely voice in your ear asking if you needed more ice for your side or if you needed help reaching up for a coffee mug in the cabinet. It was helpful for the first day, by day two you were ready to beat him with his own arm.
So tonight, you helped yourself to a bit of the devils lettuce, a luxury you were rarely afforded as the tower nurses heavily advised against it through the quiet periods, just in case of a real threat. You sprawled across the couch, eyes coated in a ruby red gloss, and wrist deep into a bag of chips you swore would last the whole week. The longer you thought about it, the nicer retirement felt. No obligations, no fighting, and best of all: no annoying super-soldier roommate encroaching on every facet of your life.
The harsh truth was: he truly wasn’t that bad. He didn’t snore, he didn’t shift loudly in his sleep. In the mornings he woke you up with a new kind of brew from the coffee shop across the street. The mornings were pleasant, almost unbearably pleasant. Everything you’ve come to loathe about him was crashing down around you. Perhaps it had been the lack of dating you’ve done, as an avenger it simply wasn’t in the picture. It was almost nice not having to spend the quiet nights alone, even if he was still feet away on the floor.
The thought of not resenting him sent you into a frenzy. Your skin itched when you smiled at his groggy good mornings and you tried to convince yourself that the butterflies in your stomach were in fact moths eating away at the lining of your stomach. The marajuana in your system served you oh-so kindly to drown out the strange room in your brain that the soldier had taken up in your brain.
It wasn’t until maybe half past midnight that he re-entered the apartment, Sam following behind him and another man behind Sam. You weren’t acquainted with the man but he was handsome, maybe just an inch or two shorter than Sam with pretty olive skin and a strong nose.
Bucky motioned the two men in behind him. He took a glance at your red eyes muttering a “Jesus Christ” with the look of a disappointed father and an aggressive rub of his eyes. If he hadn’t already been exhausted, the stoned demon on his couch was more than enough to take him out.
You hadn’t seen Bucky before he left the apartment. His hair was pulled half-up with a hair tie he’d definitely stolen from you and he’d dressed himself in a sweater and jeans you didn’t know even existed in his closet. You looked towards him, eyes glossy, smile uncontrollable, and laughed. You laughed hard. So hard that the sound from the television seemed to melt away and out of your ears and that your vision blurred with tears.
“You look like a fuckin’ librarian.” you gasped for air, holding your stomach, chip crumbs dusting the bottom hem of your shirt.
“And you look like a fuckin’ mess.” He shot back with an unamused look across all of his features, eyes icy and irritated as they took you in. Sam laughed along while the still-unidentified man tried to read the room to guide his reaction. “Ignore her.” Bucky grumbled.
“Sam, you’re a terrible friend for letting him go out like that.” You practically cackled, kicking your legs and pointing to the man which then provoked Sam to laugh even harder with the mystery man following in suit. Your blanket was now bunched up to your thighs, you grabbed the closer end to wipe the tears that had sprinkled themselves down your cheeks.
Bucky shook his head with an eye roll, the dark pieces of raven hard framing his face falling downward like the furrow in his eyebrow. With another mutter of something you couldn’t quite make out, he motioned the other two men into the kitchen, something about comms or a mission, something you were so blissfully grateful to not have to deal with. With ease, you were perched back upright on the couch, cushion holding your back at a ninety degree angle, setting your eyes back on the reality television show ridden with censorship bleeps and unnecessary drama.
“I’m Joaquin, by the way. I work with those two. Ya’ know? Missions n’ stuff.” The now-identified man gloated, his smile nearly as bright as his eyes. You greeted him back before settling your hand back into the chip bag.
The noise from the kitchen sounded like television static, undiscernible, incredibly unimportant to the night you were having. You hadn’t even noticed when Sam and Joaquin left. Your lovely staycation was cut abruptly, a large mass of muscle joining you on the couch. Only this time, he wore a pair of sweatpants and one of his compression shirts, something you were better acquainted with, something that wouldn’t make you die of laughter.
“You always make stupid decisions like this?” Bucky posed the question, a tinge of annoyance in his voice.
“What decisions?”
“You know you shouldn’t be smoking that shit.”
“I didn’t smoke anything. Thank you very much.” you pointed to the small wrapper that once contained your weed gummy. “Plus, you went out and got drunk.”
“I can’t get drunk.”
“Fuck you.” You slurred and rolled your eyes and picked up the remote, turning up the bickering on the tv.
Bucky watched you from the other side of the couch. He took in the slow and long blinks from your flushed and rosy eyes and the way your pajama shirt hiked its way up above your belly button, your now-scarring tissue peeking out just a bit. You giggled at the tv, smile unwavering through the whole episode. For once, you were soft. Guard down, gently giggling, body shy of any tension.
He’d seen you that way very few times before. You treated the tower nurses like the salt of the earth, speaking singsongy and gently even when they rushed your stitches or physical therapy. You’d taken Tony’s prodigy child Peter out quite a bit too and treated him with the same delicate nature. He saw the same gentle smile in Steve’s camera roll when he recovered his cellphone in a forgotten drawer of the apartment. Bucky’s stomach dropped every time he witnessed it, not in a way that made him feel sick, it was more so a filling of a pit that he didn’t know resided below his ribs.
“Barnes. Is Joaquin single?” Your head rested against the top of the couch, eyes slowly wandering from one light bulb to another within the ceiling.
“Not a normal goddamn night with you, huh?” He almost snapped.
“You’re jealous.” You held out your vowels long with a giggle.
Bucky sighed, lifting his hands to massage his temples. He didn’t have anything against Joaquin, the kid was nice and charming, however, that was the problem. He was a kid, around the same age as you no doubt. There was something that Bucky couldn’t stand about the idea of you two getting to know each other. “Joaquin’s a doormat.” He muttered.
“You’re a doormat. I’ve stepped on you like five times this week.” You giggled, eyes advertising to the ceiling, now to the grump on the couch beside you. His eyelids settled halfway over his eyes hazily, almost mirroring yours, only his full of exhaustion instead of cannabis.
“I can handle you.” He spoke without looking at you, eyes fixed on the television. He was undeniably handsome in the lowlight, his cheekbones catching all the shadows in the room, his jaw clenched and sharp.
Your eyes fixed on him. Your hand shuffled for the remote, pausing your show. You tore your blanket off with a giggle, legs immediately susceptible to goosebumps. Slowly, you half-crawled across the couch towards him, his face unwavering as you encroached even closer. You stopped when your knees were touching the outside of his right thigh.
“What do you mean you can handle me?” Your eyes squinted with the furrow of your eyebrow. You laughed a bit, despite the seriousness on his face remaining unmoving. He scooted out of your touch, reaching for the remote to unpause and turn up the volume on the television.
“Shut up and eat your chips.” He grumbled. He rose from the couch and made his way towards the kitchen. You groaned, watching him maneuver through the pantry for a snack.
“You do this all the time.” You held your ground as best as you could, your high lightening the severity of his blow while your words almost begged him to pay attention to the almost-discomfort that fell heavier and heavier with every moment it was ignored. The soldier remained silent, cold eyes fixated on a tub of cookies he swore he wouldn’t dig into. He simply hummed in response, uninterested in whatever else you had to say.
He scooped two cookies in one hand as he closed the plastic tub with the other, the loud pang assaulting your ears. He looked through you as he chewed.
“You’re a big personality. He’s not ready for your trash mouth.” He chewed absentmindedly, only this time, his eyes met yours lazily.
“You wish you could see how dirty my mouth can get.” you teased, reaching up for a glass cup, which Bucky quickly blocked for the sake of your healing stitches.
“Exactly what I mean.” He rolled his still-unamused eyes while he filled your glass at the refrigerator with ice and water, extra ice so you could chew on it after you drank the water. He couldn’t express how he loathed the sound. It’s not that you chewed with your mouth open, he simply compared it to chewing on glass, he said his front teeth were too sensitive for it despite his enhancements. “I’m just saying, it’s in your best interest to find someone who can really take care of you.” He shrugged.
“Is that why you’re perpetually and eternally single?” You asked, stumbling on the longer words, marajuana still spinning circles in your brain. You giggled in his stern face as he handed you the glass, your hands touching as he passed it gently with a look that said ‘don’t drop it’.
The apartment was dim tonight, the night's cold swirling through the forever-open window that the two of you kept forgetting to fix. The streetlights shone brightly through the window, just enough to counter the lack of light in the kitchen. It was quiet with intention. Bucky stood guard to your high state while you watched him absorb the darkness in the high points of his face and down the veins of his flesh arm. Tendrils of smoke entered your nose from the eucalyptus candle you’d lit hours ago. You assumed Bucky blew it out, you’d barely remembered lighting it let alone ceasing the flame.
“It’s hard telling girls that you live with another woman huh?” You asked genuinely, peeking over the cusp of your glass.
“Nope. Just not looking right now.” He answered shortly.
The two of you stood across from each other now. His back against the refrigerator with you leaning on the kitchen counter. The bright oven light teased out the lightest blue of his eyes while it kissed the high points of your face delicately. Nothing but the gentle buzzing of the kitchen appliances and the turning-white noise of the television danced with soft percussion in your ears. He watched as you took small hummingbird sips of your water.
“Well, I think you take good care of me.” It was a gentle interjection from you, however, still one that settled awkwardly in his stomach.
“That’s what Steve wanted me to do.” He countered, eyes now painfully observant of your red ones. He swallowed the lump in his throat. He took a bit of his second cookie, evading the eye contact he’d just afforded you. The air around the both of you thickened and thickened, so bad you felt as if you could take a bite of it.
You stepped closer to him, back escaping the counter, your chest closer to the deep and slow rise and fall of his. Just a couple inches closer, you could have touched him. The marajuana in your system begged for it, to feel even just a whisper of his touch, to allow yourself to come undone at the touch of his lips against your upper thigh this time. However, the pressure between the both of you was sobering, practically screaming for you to be on your best behavior.
“Steve didn’t ask you to learn my Thai order. He didn’t even ask you to stay. You take care of me because you want to. ‘Cause you like me.” You taunted in a low whisper, eyes as dark as the all-consuming night around you.
He shifted his weight as he looked down at you, studying the way your lips parted. He thought about how it’d feel to run his tongue against the plush skin of your bottom lip and the sound you’d make if he sunk his teeth into it. His right brain hissed a warning signal. His now empty hands snaked around either side of your waist, thumbs reaching aimlessly towards the insides of your thighs.
“Honey, I can’t have you like this.” He stammered, then pulled you closer, going against his own word. His hands now slid around your back. “You’re not in the right headspace. It wouldn’t be fair to you.” He continued.
“I want it.” You reprimanded him.
“You don’t know what you want right now.”
“I wanna be back on the ledge of that bathtub. You said you could take it all away.”
“We’ll talk about it when you’re sober.”
Your hands were defiant, setting down your water cup and traveling straight to the hem of his shirt. The cold of your hands came as a shock as they wiggled underneath the fabric of his top, settling on the skin on the sides of his abdomen. It was soft, softer than anything he’d felt before. You leaned in, hands now on the small of his back, and a sigh just mere centimeters away from his lips.
“We’ll talk about it when you’re sober. Let's get you to bed, baby.” He countered gently, the heat from his mouth being enough to make your knees buckle.
With that, he removed your hands from his back, laced his flesh hand in yours, and walked you to your bedroom.
-----
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