⮕ 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐓 ❘ [𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖛𝖊𝖑 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖘]

▬▬▬▬ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑩𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚𝒑𝒍𝒖𝒎

TIMELINE｡˚ ⁀➷  Post Thunderbolts*, Mentions of Post Civil War and Pre-Infinity War.

WARNING｡˚ ⁀➷ Hurt/comfort, Fluff

PAIRING｡˚ ⁀➷ Bucky Barnes x SageWitch!reader

SUMMARY｡˚ ⁀➷ You spill the truth about the 'Buckyplum' tattoo that you had got in New Asgard during the Blip.

꧁꧂

The air crackled with magic as green sparks flickered from your fingertips. You moved with practiced ease, sending a pulse of emerald light toward Aaron. He raised a golden shield to block it, eyes sharp and focused.

"Not bad, kid," you teased.

"Not a kid," he shot back, smirking. "Anymore."

The sparring was quick and light, more dance than battle. You stopped inches from his shoulder, breath steady.

Aaron caught your hesitation, "You always hold back," he said. "Even when I've got you beat."

"I was pacing you," you grinned.

Then his eyes flicked down—and froze.

The neckline of your top had shifted, revealing the bold tattoo just above your heart, etched in cursive font: buckyplum.

Aaron's eyes widened, "Wait, does that say 'buckyplum'?"

You yanked your shirt up, cheeks heating, "You weren't supposed to see that."

He burst out laughing, almost doubling over. "No way! That is hilarious!"

"It was a drunk mistake," you muttered, trying to sound casual as you reached for a water bottle.

Aaron's grin only grew wider. "Drunk mistake? Please tell me Valkyrie was involved."

You shot him a sideways glance. "We may have been in New Asgard during the Blip. I may have been tipsy. She may have dared me. Weird times."

He shook his head, chuckling. "So what does it even mean?"

You softened, fingers curling around the bottle. "It's a secret word," you said quietly, "just between your dad and me."

Aaron's smile faded to something warmer as he watched you, "A secret word for what?"

↠━━━━ღ◆ღ━━━━↞

FLASHBACK – WAKANDA | A YEAR AFTER THE AVENGERS SPLIT UP

Bucky sat at the edge of the porch outside your shared cottage, half in shadow, elbows on his knees. The sun was slipping behind the trees, casting long, lazy orange streaks across the sky. It looked like a painting—something too soft for the life he'd lived.